


Songs of the South I thru VIII

by starshine24mc



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-12-31
Updated: 2001-12-31
Packaged: 2018-11-20 20:10:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11342391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starshine24mc/pseuds/starshine24mc
Summary: Like Fox and Walter's Mood Music, this, and the stories that follow, will be stand-alones that may or may not go together, depending on how the mood strikes me.





	Songs of the South I thru VIII

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Songs of the South by Goddess Michele

Title: Songs of the South 1: Breathless  
Author: Goddess Michele  
Fandom: X-Files  
Pairing: M/Sk  
Category: slash  
Rating: NC17  
Status: done  
Spoilers: Brand X  
Archive: Anywhere, just leave my name on it.  
Feedback: Yes, PLEASE!   
Beta: none, but all suggestions are welcome.  
Disclaimer: C.C., Fox and 1013 own them, I'm just borrowing them for fun, not profit, and I promise to return them only slightly bruised, but in that good 'thank you sir and may I have another?' way.  
Summary: Like Fox and Walter's Mood Music, this, and the stories that follow, will be stand-alones that may or may not go together, depending on how the mood strikes me.  
Special thanks to Mick for the pizza, and to Chad for the music and so much more...

* * *

Fox Mulder walked up the steps to Walter Skinner's apartment building without his usual jaunty stride. It wasn't that he was unhappy to be there. Just the opposite, in fact. Walter inviting him over for the weekend was possibly the only good thing that had happened in this whole horrific week.

No, he wasn't unhappy with his lover. He was unhappy with himself. Thanks to that E Pluribus bastard Weaver, a few hundred tobacco beetles, and Scully's inspired cure, he was not only battling a nicotine addiction, one which was achingly familiar, but he was fighting said war with lungs that could barely draw breath most of the time, a throat which ached no matter how many lozenges he took, and a general unformed malaise that left him without appetite and unable to sleep.

Scully had given him the medical chapter and verse of what had happened to him, and what he could expect in the form of his recovery. Skinner had just favored him with one too many guilty looks, and if he had asked him if he was okay one more time, Mulder thought he might just pull out his gun and shoot him. Or himself. His target varied depending on how he felt at the moment.

And right now he felt very bad indeed.

He paused on the top step, feeling like he'd just run a marathon, set his satchel down on the concrete and fumbled through his trench coat pocket for the keys to the building. When said keys did not immediately leap into his hand, he felt uncharacteristically angry, which in turn caused his heart to beat a little faster, requiring more oxygen, and.

He fought off the cough that was tickling the back of his throat, tried to ease his breathing, and searched all his pockets, more slowly this time, but with the same negative results.

"Crap!" The exclamation came out of him in a breathy little whisper, which might have been sexy if he was Demi Moore on the set of St Elmo's Fire. But he wasn't.

"Damn!" Same whispery sound, and the tickle became a little harder to ignore. And then a lot harder, and when he pressed the door buzzer and heard Skinner's inquiring voice, he could only make a series of stifled coughing barks as he struggled to say his name.

The door lock buzzed immediately.

He caught the door, caught the elevator, caught his breath. By the time the elevator had deposited him onto the seventeenth floor, he was breathing normally again, grimacing at the taste of two Fisherman's Friends melting on his tongue, and feeling the onset of a headache.

Skinner opened the door before he could touch it, took his arm and pulled him into the apartment. Closed the door behind him, took his satchel and coat, and steered him towards the couch, all without saying a word. Sat down beside him, loosened his tie and the top two buttons of his shirt, then touched the side of his face.

"Hey."

"Hey." He didn't think Skinner was even aware of it when he flinched at the raspy sound of his voice, but he felt too tired to comment. Instead, he added, "Thanks for letting me in-I forgot my key." He didn't know if Skinner felt the same way he did, but saying "my key" always gave him a warm shiver, one that might have been sappy in a romance novel, but in real life just felt safe and good. He leaned into his lover, and was rewarded with two strong arms around his shoulders, stroking lightly over his back while he rested his head on Skinner's chest and tried to will away the throb in his temples.

"You hungry?" Skinner asked after a while.

"Sure," Mulder replied, meaning no. He thought that if he had to slide anything more than a cough drop down the barbed wire fence that his throat had become, he would probably choke to death.

Skinner disengaged himself from Mulder, stood and held out his hand. The younger man gazed at it with mild disinterest for a moment, and Skinner added, "Come with me."

With a shrug, Mulder got up from the couch, using Skinner's hand to pull himself upright, and both men ignored the muted groan that slipped from his lips. Too much time in the hospital, too little time to recuperate after.

Skinner guided him upstairs, walking close behind him, then steered him with a gentle hand on his arm, into the bedroom. Mulder noticed his breathing became easier the minute he entered the room, and he wondered about that for a moment before noticing a dry humidifier set up in the corner by the bed, burbling cheerfully to itself, and he turned to Skinner with a confused but grateful smile. He knew that the older man had never owned a humidifier. At least not until today. Skinner gave him an unreadable look and pressed a small kiss to the side of his mouth, then pushed him towards the bed. Mulder saw that his plaid pajama pants were laid out there, along with a pair of wool socks and the fluffy white bathrobe Skinner had bought him for Christmas. A part of him felt warmed by the gesture, in the same way having his own key to the apartment had warmed him, but his cranky inner teenager insisted on voicing a typical Muldercomplaint.

"I'm fine, Walter. Scully wouldn't have let them let me out of the hospital if I wasn't, you know." More sounds in that "I've just been gargling glass" voice, and they both winced. Mulder felt that familiar tickle again as he forced the words out. Skinner shushed him with another kiss.

"I know. I just thought you might want to rest a little. It's been a long week, don't you think?" He gave Mulder a look somewhere between love and consternation, and Mulder suspected that Skinner could see right through his "I'm fine" routine, and he wondered for a moment if Scully hadn't had a hand in this somehow. The worst of his coughing fits and nicotine-deprived rants had all taken place in the basement this week, with only his best friend and partner as witness. When he'd had to meet with other agents, or with Skinner, he'd been careful to keep his voice low, his temper in check and his face neutral whenever he was asked how he felt. He gave the bed a longing look, shivered as he felt Skinner undoing another button on his shirt and swallowed painfully. Two more buttons later he found himself justifying his actions by thinking that maybe Skinner had had a long week, too, and this was his way of relaxing, offering his own needs to Mulder. He ignored the voice of honesty trying to tell him that this was for him because he needed it, and smiled and kissed Skinner back, mouth opening just enough to share his nasty cough drop experience.

"I thought we were eating." He moved back and finished the job of unbuttoning his shirt himself.

Skinner handed him the television remote from the bedside table and said. "I ordered in. Find us something good to watch, and I'll bring you something to drink." He turned and left the room. Mulder stared after him as he removed the rest of his clothes, had a brief moment of utter gratefulness so strong it made him shudder, then shoved the needy thought away and slipped on the pants and socks. He breathed humid air deeply and smiled as he crawled into the large bed, noting the extra pillows and blankets that hadn't been there last time he'd spent the night. He turned on the television and leaned back with a sigh.

He'd found CNN and was absorbing baseball scores when Skinner returned with an oversized mug steaming in one hand, and a rocks glass choked with ice and scotch in the other. Mulder took the cup from him without looking away from the TV, grunted something that was almost a thank you, then had to hand the cup back when sharp hacking coughs burst from him.

Skinner set the cup and his glass on the nightstand, sat down on the bed next to Mulder and ran one large hand soothingly over the younger man's back, trying to help ease the coughing spell. Mulder was gasping for breath, as each deep inhale just produced another cough.

"Slow down, Fox. Shallow breaths. Come on, buddy, nice and slow."

Eventually Mulder got himself under control. Skinner wiped inadvertent tears off his cheeks, kissed his forehead, and handed him back the mug, which was still steaming slightly.

"Fucking bugs," he muttered as he sipped at the contents of the cup, discovering blueberry tea-not the fruity herbal kind, but the amaretto and grand Marnier kind. He felt honeyed warmth soothe his throat, then settle gently onto his overtaxed abdominals, which had set up a continuous ache since that first coughing spell so many days ago.

"Thanks."

Skinner suspected there was an "I'm sorry" trying to get out along with the thanks, and he was grateful when the door buzzer sounded, heralding the arrival of their supper.

"Drink your tea, I'll be right back."

Mulder had already turned back to the television, and didn't reply.

He'd just finished the hot drink, and was flipping channels idly when Skinner re-entered the room, two plates balanced on a pizza box in one hand and a large glass of iced tea in the other. He handed the glass to Mulder, set the pizza box on the covers, and sat down on the bed.

"Triple Eight?" Mulder asked.

"Yes."

"Pepperoni and mushroom?"

"Yes."

"Extra cheese?"

"Yes."

Skinner handed him a plate, took one for himself and opened the pizza box. Mulder sipped the cold tea, which tasted and felt just as good as the hot tea had, and Skinner put two inside pieces of the square cut pizza onto his plate. They exchanged a look, one that spoke more than any words could have. Skinner took three pieces for himself, moved the box and sat back next to Mulder.

Mulder managed both pieces of pizza and half the glass of tea, and then cozied up to Skinner as they watched television.

When Skinner finished eating, he got up from the bed. Mulder gave him a grumpy look, which he matched with an apologetic grin, then began clearing away the detritus of their meal.

"More tea?"

Mulder shook his head and Skinner added his glass to the items in his hands.

"Be right back," he promised, then before Mulder could protest, he added, "No horror movies here, Fox."

Mulder grinned sheepishly and coughed weakly.

Mulder could hear Skinner moving around the apartment. Dishes clashed and the dishwasher hummed. He thought he could hear his lover talking to himself, but couldn't be sure. Then he was coming back up the stairs with his customary light tread that still surprised Mulder. He always pictured Skinner as a man who bullied his way through life, and often forgot the subtleties that his lover was capable of. Then he spared a thought for the brand-new humidifier, the spiked tea and an old conversation they'd had where he'd explained to Walter just why square-cut pizza tasted better, and he realized just how subtle the man really was.

He was smiling when Skinner re-entered the room. He returned Mulder's smile with a confused but pleased one of his own and came around to the far side of the bed. He set yet another glass on the nightstand-this one full of ice water-and pressed two small yellow pills into Mulder's hand, saying, "I'm going to grab a shower-do you need anything?"

Mulder thought a moment. "Mmmm.a new set of lungs?"

Skinner laughed. "I'll see what I can do." He pressed a kiss to his lover's brow and left the room. Mulder slid down under the covers, put aside the painkillers and found the remote.

He jerked awake with a groan and a cough when he heard the bathroom door open, and thought that if he'd known just how good a cure "Roswell" could be for his sleeplessness, he'd have started watching it years ago.

Skinner approached the bed in nothing more than a towel wrapped loosely around his hips, a look which Mulder did not fail to appreciate, even if he wasn't feeling quite up to his usual party games. He managed a half-hearted leer and whispered. "Ooh, that's hot."

His lover gave him a stern though indulgent look and sat down on the bed next to him.

"Don't think for a moment that I'm not sorely tempted, Fox," he said. "It's been a long time-too long."

Mulder felt himself blushing under the unexpected compliment.

"But," Skinner continued, "Do you really think you want to try anything that athletic while your lungs are still doing their corned beef impression?"

"It's not that bad," Mulder argued weakly, the harsh whisper of his tone giving away the lie.

"And besides that, despite my love for your new dog-sled pulling voice, I think I'd miss your usual vocalizations." He grinned suddenly and, in an eerily perfect imitation of his lover, cried out "Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh Walter!"

"Asshole," But he was smiling when he said it.

"Why don't we see what the morning brings? And in the meantime." Skinner pushed back the covers, revealing Mulder's bare chest and stomach. The younger man shivered, and Skinner held out a small octagonal glass jar for him to see. Tiger Balm.

"Roll over," Skinner's low tone turned the order into something more loving and less military, and Mulder complied.

He groaned at the first touch of Skinner's large hands on his back, and immediately felt the tingle of the analgesic liniment as Skinner began rubbing it into his skin. Tendrils of heat stole under his skin, his muscles and into his lungs, opening and soothing them, and he took his first deep breath without coughing in over a week.

Skinner worked over every inch of available skin, from his neck and shoulders to the base of his spine. Strong blunt fingers worked out stress-related kinks and knots even as they stroked in the strong liniment.

A kiss brushed his hair and a finger tapped his shoulder and he rolled bonelessly onto his back, offered his lover a sleepy smile, and was given a soft kiss for his efforts. He felt a stirring in his groin but felt too lazy to do anything about it.

Skinner repeated the thorough massage on his front, working more balm into his throat, his chest and his stomach. His touch was lighter now, as Mulder relaxed fully under his ministrations, but still as relentless, stroking and petting and kneading until he realized that Mulder had fallen asleep.

Skinner stood up then and replaced the covers over his lover's body. He took a moment to shut off the bedroom light, but left the television on, knowing Mulder preferred it and figuring he could live with it for one night. He set his glasses on the nightstand and slid under the duvet next to Mulder. Turned to gaze myopically at the man next to him, run a hand through his hair and touch the side of his face. A kiss on the forehead, and when he leaned back, Mulder followed him, still mostly asleep, but aware enough to curl up with his head on Skinner's chest and long arms and legs wrapped around the older man. Skinner slipped an arm around his back to support him, and got a sleep muddled sound and a sigh for his efforts. He closed his eyes and didn't let himself think about what would have happened if they hadn't been able to save "his boy". Just before sleep claimed him, he thought he heard Mulder murmur something like ".jsh wait.morning."

* * *

Title: Songs of the South 2: This Time I Know It's For Real  
Author: Goddess Michele  
Fandom: X-Files/Lone Gunmen  
Pairing: M/Sk, J/B  
Category: slash  
Rating: PG13  
Status: done  
Spoilers: not that I noticed  
Archive: Anywhere, just leave my name on it.  
Feedback: Yes, PLEASE!   
Beta: none, but all suggestions are welcome. I have a better sense of angst then ha-ha, so if I was the only one who found some of this funny, please let me know!  
Disclaimer: C.C., Fox and 1013 own them, I'm just borrowing them for fun, not profit, and I promise to return them only slightly bruised, but in that good 'thank you sir and may I have another?' way.  
Summary: It *is* what you say, and not just the way you say it. Like Fox and Walter's Mood Music, this, and the stories that follow, will be stand-alones that may or may not go together, depending on how the mood strikes me. Special thanks to Chad for the music and so much more. Special dedication to J.D. Rush, who knows the boys so much better than I, and a note of congrats to M & J, for getting their own page.

* * *

Mulder continued to pound on the thick steel door of the office even as Frohike was unlocking the various deadbolts, chain locks and padlocks that kept the Lone Gunmen feeling safe.

"All right, Mulder, keep yer shorts on." He pulled open the door and Mulder nearly knocked him over as he dashed into the dingy warehouse that housed all that the public had a right to know. Langly glanced up briefly from his computer game, Jimmy approached the door, and Byers set aside the article he was editing.

"I'm in trouble, guys!" Mulder gasped, and Frohike wondered if the man had run all the way here from his apartment in Alexandria. He hoped not, as that could lead to a charley horse, and, thanks to Jimmy, they were fresh out of Watkins.

"What is it, Mulder?" Byers glanced past Mulder, trying to get a glimpse of the army that might be chasing his friend. All he saw was Frohike re-locking the door.

"You have to let me stay here for a while."

Langly didn't even look up from the computer, where he was currently taking out a mess of zombie orc marines with his new and improved sword of wounding "Why, did Scully find out you've had her ova in your desk drawer all this time?"

"Worse."

"Oh, man!" exclaimed Jimmy, "Were you probed by aliens?" Mulder never had told him about the 'nose thing', or the 'big one', and he was as much curious as concerned.

Only Frohike noticed the blush that crept up Mulder's cheeks when he replied, "Uh, not exactly."

"Mulder, calm down and tell us what this is all about." Frohike pushed the taller man into one of the various mismatched chairs that added more clutter than class to the office.

"I just need a place to lay low for a couple of days," said Mulder.

"Why?" asked Byers.

"What kind of trouble are you in, man?" asked Frohike.

"I am not giving up my bed," declared Langly.

Jimmy gave him his best exasperated look. "Shut up, Langly! The man could be in a real world of hurt here." He looked back at Mulder, and his tone became suddenly suspicious. "Hey, man, you're crying!" He reached out a hand, and Mulder slapped it away, then wiped his eyes.

"I am not!" he sounded scandalized by the very notion, and swiped at his eyes again.

Frohike squatted down next to Mulder. "Tell us what's going on, Mulder," he said in a soft voice.

Byers put a hand on Mulder's shoulder. "You can trust us."

"What the hell was I thinking?" Mulder muttered. He took a deep breath. "I-I."

The Gunmen all leaned forward expectantly, and even Langly put the orc invasion on hold to hear what Mulder had to say.

"I told Walter I loved him tonight." There was a sad note of fatality in Mulder's tone.

Dead silence greeted this statement for a moment. Then a snort. Then a giggle, cut off abruptly, and Langly immediately ran from the room, clapping his hand over his mouth to stifle braying laughter. Then silence again. Mulder put his face in his hands, and Jimmy and Byers shared a relieved smile, but Frohike still looked concerned.

"Guys, this is serious."

Jimmy put on his serious face.

"Of course you can stay here, Mulder," Byers said, moving closer to Jimmy and sneaking an arm around the big man's waist. "In fact, I insist that you use my room."

Jimmy's serious face turned into Jimmy's I'm-getting-lucky-tonight face.

"Come on, buddy, I'll hook ya up." Frohike tugged on Mulder's arm, and dragged him off to the rooms behind the office. As they passed the first door, they could hear muffled whoops of laughter emanating from it. Frohike paused long enough to slam one gloved hand against the door, making it shudder.

"Put a sock in it, Blondie!" he yelled. Then he continued leading Mulder down the hall to Byers room. Mulder was not surprised to find the small room was compulsively neat, and he had a stray thought of Skinner, which set him to sniffling again.

Frohike pushed him down on a single bed covered by a blanket pulled tight enough to bounce quarters off of.

"Okay, Mulder, now that we're alone." Frohike said. Mulder gave him a startled glance.

"What?" He drew back mistrustfully as Frohike moved forward, severely invading his personal space.

"Now you're going to tell me what's so bad about telling the Skinman how you feel about him." Frohike was glaring at him now, and Mulder wasn't sure how to reply. Suddenly, a football jersey the size of a vehicle tarp hit him in the side of the head.

"Wha-fuck?" He uncovered himself from the shirt and held it up, noting the name BOND in capital letters on the back above the number 69. He didn't recognize the green and white team colours, or the logo either, and he turned to the doorway, where Jimmy was grinning sheepishly at him.

"Saskatchewan Roughriders," he said by way of explanation. "CFL. They haven't won a game since 1991. I have a soft spot for underdogs." He and Frohike shared a look, then he added, "I thought you might need something to sleep in."

Mulder looked at the jersey again, thought that he and Walter could probably both sleep comfortably in it, then smiled wistfully and said, "Thanks, Jimmy."

Jimmy beamed at him. "All right then. Have a good night. Breakfast is at nine. Hope you like pancakes." He disappeared down the hall.

"Okay, Mulder, no more fooling around. What happened?"

"I told you, Melvin." Mulder stood up and began to pace. "I didn't mean to say anything. It just sort of slipped out."

"I'm guessing you two weren't just holding hands and talking." Frohike was trying to resolve his mind's image of the porno king of Virginia with the miserable blushing man in front of him, and was having a hard time of it.

"Listen, Mulder," he continued. "Lots of things get said in the heat of the moment, as it were. Hell, you should have been here last week. Byers accidentally called Jimmy 'Marilyn' at a rather delicate juncture."

Mulder laughed, and Frohike joined in a minute later, adding, "Yeah, breakfast was a treat that day, let me tell you." He immediately turned serious again. "But, Mulder, what's the big deal? I know Walt. He's never going to be a swinging party animal, but he's a good man. And good for you. Now tell me what's so wrong with loving a man like that?"

"I told Samantha I loved her all the time."

For a minute Frohike didn't make the connection, but almost immediately he understood what Mulder was saying. He was all set to argue the issue, but let Mulder finish his point first.

"'Course, all that did was make Dad call me a pansy every time he heard me."

"Swell fella," Frohike muttered.

"I even told Scully I loved her." Mulder continued. "And look what happened with that whole alien-abducting, ova sucking, bee stinging, heart-ripping, sister killing, cancer causing mess!"

Frohike had heard enough. "Listen buddy," he exclaimed, pushing Mulder back onto the bed forcefully. "I don't know what ego-planet you just arrived from, but if you think that you are responsible for everything that isn't sunshine and roses in the lives of the people you know, then you need to seriously re-evaluate the world and your importance in it!"

Mulder just stared at him.

"Did it ever occur to you, Mr. Doom and Gloom, that bad things happen to good people once in a while, and that maybe they'd happen with or without you?"

"But-"

Frohike was on a roll now. "But nothing! The only thing that makes a difference is that you were one of the good things in the midst of all the crap. You *are* one of the good things. And your loving someone can only be a good thing." He emphasized his words with a little shake of Mulder's shoulders, and then stepped back with a small frown of self-disgust. "Now look at this-you've got me talking like Martha Stewart, for God's sake!"

Mulder smiled at that, and in a quiet voice said, "I don't think anyone will ever mistake you for Martha Stewart, Melvin."

"Mulder, you can stay here, tonight. But I want you to consider what's happened, and what you think is going to happen. We'll figure out what to do tomorrow." He walked over to the door, paused a moment, and said, "Like I said, Mulder. He's a good man. A strong man. And hey, maybe, just maybe, he feels the same way. Did ya ever think about that?" And he left the room.

Mulder considered that for a moment. Fretted over it for a moment more. Tried out panic, but it wasn't his style. Went back to considering. Finally had to admit to himself that he had acted rashly, and that despite it's end-of-the-world repercussions, maybe Frohike was right. That in itself was cause for more consideration. Finally he looked down at the shirt in his hands, had a stray thought about Jimmy and Byers that made him smile, frown and blush, all at the same time, then stood up from the bed and went in search of the bathroom.

***

He returned to the bedroom some time later, having found a place to shower. Just wearing a towel, he tossed his sweaty t-shirt and pants into a corner of the room, realized just what Byers would think of that, decided that the last thing on Byers mind tonight would be the feng shui of his bedroom, and ignored the urge to pick up the garments and fold them. Instead he reached for the jersey Jimmy had given him, shook his head as he held it up to himself, then slipped the shirt over his head, thinking that beggars couldn't be choosers.

Mulder was no Kimmy the Geek, but he wasn't wearing twenty pounds of football padding either, and the jersey hung from his shoulders almost down to his knees. The sleeves of the shirt draped well past his wrists, and he pushed them up, trying to find his hands. A shift of his hips, and the towel dropped from under the shirt, and he turned to consider himself in the mirror.

On a cheerleader it might have been a sexy look. He just felt slightly ridiculous, although he couldn't completely dispel the warm feeling of comfort that he got from the oversized shirt, and his thoughts wandered back to the big man in his life, and what had happened tonight. He did love Walter Skinner. And the concept terrified him. He wished fervently that he could just rewind the evening to that point in time, when he'd let his feelings slip. Why couldn't he have found something else to say? Something safer. Something no less truthful, but far less personal.

"You could have just said "Fuck me hard, Skinman!"" he told his reflection.

"I thought that's what I was doing."

Mulder whirled at the sound of Walter Skinner's voice, to find his lover standing in the doorway, a cautious but hopeful smile on his face.

"Oh, crap," the words came out in a choked little whisper. "How--?"

"Langly called me. He said he was worried about you."

Mulder simultaneously forgave Langly for his earlier laughter, and squelched the urge to find the blonde hacker and pull his lungs out through his nose.

Skinner entered the room hesitantly, grinning a little more now, but still choosing his words carefully.

"That's a good look for you. All you're missing are the pom-poms and the "I just did the quarterback" afterglow."

Mulder gave him a sour look. "So would that make you the captain of the team, then?"

"I hope so." He moved a little closer to Mulder, regarded him seriously, backed off a little and then moved in touching-close.

Mulder backpedaled. Skinner followed him.

"Please talk to me, Fox," he said quietly, closing the distance between them. Mulder gritted his teeth and stood his ground. Skinner raised a hand, pressed it softly to his lover's chest and felt the nervous staccato heart beat of a scared man.

Mulder didn't move away, but couldn't find words either. He just stared solemnly at Skinner, who gazed back with just as much intent. The hand on his chest stroked the worn warm garment almost compulsively. Mulder found himself instinctively leaning into the strong touch.

"Did I do something wrong, Fox?" Skinner's words caught Mulder off-guard.

"What? Walter, no! It's me-I-" He paused.

"I must have done something to make you want to spend the night here at Casa del Stooges. Tell me what it was." When no answer was immediately forthcoming, Skinner took his hand away from Mulder's chest, reached down and slid the same hand under the hem of the shirt, pushing it up enough to rest his fingertips on the bare flesh of Mulder's thigh.

Mulder sighed, and Skinner upped the ante, making slow deliberate circles with his hand. Mulder lifted his arms to put them around the older man's neck, and the sleeves flapped when he moved. They shared a smile at that, and Mulder felt a little bit safe.

"Walter," he kept his voice low, as though every word were a state secret. "Tonight, when we-when I-that is-"

"Did I hurt you?" Skinner suddenly frowned, concerned. "I thought you were all right. I mean, we've done it that way before, and you never said-that is," Man of action that he was, Skinner found himself stumbling over his words. It was one thing to do it, another thing entirely to talk about it. But he persevered regardless, clumsy but determined to find out how they had gone from "that was great-be right back" to "yeah, you better get over here, your lover's freaking out."

"What I mean to say, Fox," he continued, still holding Mulder close. "is that you seemed to enjoy it as much as me. You even said-"He stopped, eyes widening behind his glasses, as he recalled just what Mulder had said. "Oh, Fox." he murmured.

Mulder just blushed and looked miserable.

Skinner pulled his hand away, pulled Mulder's arms from around his neck, pulled back from the other man. Taking hold of the collar of the shirt, he dragged Mulder roughly over to the bed and pushed him down on it, then crouched down in front of him, found his hands in the draped length of the sleeves of the jersey and squeezed them tightly.

"I'm not your sister," he said. "I'm not Scully."

Mulder opened his mouth to protest and Skinner cut him off.

"I'm not a Riticulan that the powers that be are going to shoot in some international conspiracy of silence."

He almost got a smile for that one.

"I'm not even the ghost of Elvis, despite what you may have heard coming from the shower the other day."

He did get a smile then, and he stood, still holding Mulder's hands tightly enough to bring the other man up with him.

"I'm your lover, emphasis on the 'love' part. In case you hadn't noticed, and really, Fox, you're usually a better profiler than this--I love you." He felt Mulder shiver in his grip, knew he'd hit the mark, and pressed on. "If I didn't say it before, well, I'm saying it now." Again, Mulder started to say something, and Skinner pressed a hard kiss to his mouth. "Maybe I didn't say it because I was scared of the repercussions. But look-" He paused, holding Mulder's gaze, and said it again, very slowly. "I.love.you." Silence for a moment, and then he grinned. "You will note, please, that the world has not ended. The heavens have not fallen. Hell, I didn't even get struck by lightning." Now he leaned forward and gave his lover a more thorough kiss, hard and demanding and soft and giving, all at the same time, and Mulder was breathing hard when it ended. He was giving Skinner a look that combined the wide-eyed little boy he still harbored inside himself, and the hard-edged cynical profiler he used to protect that little boy.

Mulder pulled himself close for another kiss and murmured something unintelligible.

Skinner reached up and tangled his fingers in still-damp hair, and pulled him back so they were face to face.

"What was that, Fox?" He pressed carefully, anxiously aware of the battle going on within his lover, but determined to bring about a resolution.

Mulder offered him a half-grin and hugged him tightly, rested his head on Skinner's shoulder, which had apparently been built for just this occasion, then turned his head just enough that his lips were brushing the other man's ear. He made Skinner shiver as he whispered softly, but very deliberately:

"I.love.you."

Again, the earth remained stubbornly turning on its axis, plagues refused to rain down on them, and Skinner was still standing there as the last word tumbled from his lips.

"Thank you. Thank you very much," Skinner replied.

***

Melvin Frohike checked the front door locks for the last time, shut down the office lights, and made his way down the darkened hall to his bedroom with just two small emergency lights to illuminate his passage. He paused at Langly's door, heard the combined whisper of a running modem and light snoring, and moved on with a smile. The door to Byers' room was slightly ajar, and he reached for the doorknob to close it, then paused for a moment, and peeked his head in, telling himself it was strictly for security reasons.

The two big men would have been cramped on Byers tiny single bed if they hadn't been so thoroughly intertwined. Lit only by the glow of Byers American flag nightlight, Frohike could just make out the large form of Walter Skinner, thoroughly naked, if the pile of clothes at the end of the bed was any indication, covered partially by a blanket, and partially by Mulder, who was curled up around the big man. Frohike noticed that he was wearing the football jersey, and that one of Skinner's hands was lost under its voluminous folds, while the other was holding him around his shoulders.

He pulled the door shut with a soft click, thinking breakfast was going to be interesting.

Another pause at the last door before his own, and here he heard a rhythmic squeaking that made him grin, soft groans that made him smile more, and then Byers voice, low and strained, but in that good way: "Oh.Jackie."

Yes, Frohike thought as he walked away, breakfast was going to be *very* interesting.

* * *

Title: Songs of the South 3: The Best Of Me  
Author: Goddess Michele  
Fandom: X-Files  
Pairing: M/Sk  
Category: slash  
Rating: R  
Status: done  
Spoilers: The Rain King  
Archive: Anywhere, just leave my name on it.  
Feedback: Yes, PLEASE!   
Beta: none, but all suggestions are welcome.  
Disclaimer: C.C., Fox and 1013 own them, I'm just borrowing them for fun, not profit, and I promise to return them only slightly bruised, but in that good 'thank you sir and may I have another?' way.  
Summary: Like Fox and Walter's Mood Music, this, and the stories that follow, will be stand-alones that may or may not go together, depending on how the mood strikes me. Special thanks to Chad for the music and so much more, and a shout of spontaneous combustion to my favorite stammering, glasses-wearing, pouting, glycerin-using ubercouple for added inspiration...

* * *

Walter Skinner awoke with a start, disoriented and blinking owlishly around the room; he had no memory of falling asleep. The last thing he remembered was sitting up on the bed, scowling alternately between the ball scores on TSN and the stack of file folders balanced precariously in his lap. Not that either one had been able to hold his interest much. He was waiting for Mulder.

The phone call he'd received that afternoon had been full of promise. The case in Kansas had been cleared up, more or less, and Mulder had assured him that no one had been seriously injured, despite the flying cow. He knew better than to even ask. His lover had sounded a little tired, and a little down, but not unusually so. He told Walter that he and Scully would be catching a red-eye flight, and that he probably wouldn't be great company, but Skinner had insisted he come over anyway. Exhaustion was hardly anything new these days. Between Kersh's scut work and his own sneaky forays into X-Files territory, Mulder seemed to always be wherever Skinner wasn't. And when they did finally manage to get some 'quality' time together, it was mostly about naps. The kindest thing Skinner could think of at the moment was at least his lover didn't snore.

And apparently, he wasn't the only one who was living on too little sleep lately. Skinner hadn't realized just how tiring his own pace had been. Typical paperwork nightmares coupled with a determination to get Mulder back to his work and away from Kersh, who gave him the creeps for no apparent reason, and he supposed it was a good thing he didn't snore much either.

The room was dim, but not dark; light flickered, although Skinner could already sense that no lamps were on, and the television was shut off as well. He fumbled for his glasses, found them on the nightstand, and the bedroom came into sharp relief as he put them on.

Candles. Lots and lots of candles. More candles than he remembered owning. Flickering pools of light in the dark room, casting long wavering shadows and golden highlights over the television stand, the dresser, the bed.

Over the tall, lean form of his lover, standing at the end of the bed. The candlelight burnished his cool pale skin and made his expression impossible to read.

"Fox?"

Mulder pounced on the bed and quickly straddled his lover's body, and now Skinner discovered that he was grinning. And naked.

"Hi, honey, I'm home."

"What time is it?"

"That is an inappropriate response, Walter." But he was still smiling, now unbuttoning Skinner's shirt. "Did you miss me?" He took away the older man's glasses, and soft focus returned.

"Awfully," Skinner's tone was both dry and emphatic.

"Good." The shirt was undone now, and Skinner pulled his arms out of the sleeves as Mulder shimmied down his body and pants, briefs and socks all came away with him. Skinner felt the first stirrings of arousal in his body, along with a mild sense of surprise that Mulder could have set up this unexpected tableau while he slept. Actually, he was surprised he had done it at all-romance not being Fox Mulder's strong suit.

When he was as thoroughly naked as Mulder, the younger man moved back up his body so that they were face to face, and hip to hip.

"Fox, the-" Skinner began to ask about the candles.

"Airport gift shop-I got a discount for buying in bulk."

"But how-?"

"I can be sneaky when the occasion warrants it, Walter."

"Where-?"

"Scully was reading Cosmopolitan on the plane."

"Would you please stop doing that?" His growl earned him a soft kiss and a saucy grin.

"Page 82: How To Romance Your Man."

Skinner looked around at the candles, looked back at Fox, frowned skeptically.

"Romance?"

"Didn't I ever tell you I'm a hopeless romantic?"

"Well, hopeless, anyway." Tone still dry, but he couldn't hide the smile. Mulder gave him a pout, mostly for show, and then a longer kiss, this one full of tongue and intent, and he rubbed himself back and forth across the body beneath him. They shared a mouthful of gasps, and Mulder pulled back, even as Skinner's hands were reaching for him, trying to bring him back for more.

"Cosmo guaranteed spectacular results."

"You didn't need candlelight for that, Fox. I'm just glad you're h-here." He stuttered on the last word as Mulder gently latched onto a nipple, tugging on it with his teeth, and then soothing it with his tongue. Skinner played with his hair and felt his desire increase. His other nipple got the same thorough treatment, and the Mulder was back in his face, covering his mouth, chin, and cheeks with more fevered kisses. Skinner groaned into his lover's mouth and murmured, "You taste so good."

"Mmmm.taste.oh, hell!"

Mulder slipped away before Skinner could protest, and he shivered at the loss of contact. Breathing heavily, he admired the candles, couldn't help but chuckle a little, and moments later Mulder was back in the room, arms full of something that Skinner squinted to make out.

"Wha-?"

"The article was continued on page 216." He grinned impishly and handed Walter a flute of champagne in which a tiny strawberry floated serenely.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding," he exclaimed, sounding both dismayed and amused. But he took a sip anyway and waited for Mulder to reclaim his reserved space on top of him. Instead, something light and odd shaped fell across his chest and rolled down his stomach. He reached for it and found himself holding a rose.

Mulder was dropping long stem roses all over the bed and all over his lover.

Skinner shook his head and laughed softly.

The flowers smelled sweet but not cloying, and Skinner twirled the one in his fingers, then lifted it to his nose.

Task completed, Mulder resumed his place in Skinner's lap, sitting across his legs facing him. He toasted the man before him with his own champagne and took a sip, teasing Skinner over the rim of the glass with a smoldering glance.

Skinner stroked the rose across Mulder's cheek, then dropped the flower and reached into his glass for the strawberry. When he held it out, Mulder took it with his mouth, taking an extra moment or two to suck on Skinner's fingers.

"Fox?" Skinner set aside his glass and looked around at the flowers surrounding them.

".Hmmm?"

"Did your magazine happen to mention anything about the issue of naked flesh and rose thorns?"

Mulder finished his champagne, Skinner took the glass from him, and together they worked their way down to a more reclined position.

"Oh, yeah. I took care of that." Mulder picked up one of the flowers and ran his fingers down the stem. "Pulled 'em all off myself. See?" He offered his thumb for Skinner's inspection, and the older man could just make out a small red puncture on the fleshy pad of the digit.

"Poor baby," he murmured, taking his thumb in his mouth and sucking on it while his hands roamed down Mulder's back to rest with possessive comfort on his hips.

He released Mulder's thumb with a wet smack. "Better?"

"All kinds of better."

"So Cosmo guarantees results, huh?" His eyes darkened and Mulder shivered at his smile, which seemed to be comprised of both promise and threat.

"Spectacular results," Mulder corrected him.

"I see." Still holding Mulder tightly, Skinner lunged for his throat and worked his mouth over the sensitive flesh he found there, nibbling and licking. Mulder threw his head back with a gasp, and when his arms came up around Skinner's shoulders, the bigger man flipped both of their bodies easily, rolling them across the bed and crushing a good portion of the flowers beneath them.

He easily pushed Mulder's legs apart and nestled between them, never taking his mouth from the other man's body. Skinner spent long moments tasting a pulse that quickened with every lick and soft bite, and Mulder began making a low moaning noise deep in his throat that vibrated against Skinner's lips. Their groins rocked together, stiffening cocks clashing in an instinctive erotic duel.

Skinner left a satisfyingly red mark on Mulder's throat, and licked his way up to his lover's mouth, entwining his fingers in thick dark hair as he bit at full lips until his tongue was granted access. A long, deep kiss that left both of them gasping, and Skinner smirked at him.

"Spectacular results, hmmm."

".spectacular." came the breathless reply.

"Is this spectacular enough for you?" Skinner reached down and grasped Mulder's erection in a smooth practiced grip, stroked hard and even, and more flowers shredded in their death throes as Mulder arched up off of the bed and fell back in time with Skinner's hand movements.

If Mulder had a reply, it was swallowed up as Skinner reclaimed his lips, forcing his tongue deep inside his mouth, letting Mulder suck on his tongue, then doing the same for him as their kiss roles reversed. His lover's movements became more erratic under him, and he released his hold on the younger man's cock, and cradled his balls instead, feeling them shift and tighten under his hand.

He moved lower, both to access Mulder's chest with his questing mouth, and to slip his hand down to Mulder's ass, grinning as the man immediately spread his legs wider to allow him better access. He tugged sharply on a nipple with his teeth, and Mulder made a pained hissing noise that turned into an aroused groan as his finger lightly circled his opening.

"How's this, Fox? Is this spectacular?" he thrust forward, worked a finger into him, bit down hard and roses flew as the two men bucked hard against one another. Skinner had one quick thought of condoms and lube, and then Mulder was shifting again, wordlessly seeking deeper contact, and Skinner felt his own body responding in kind. He worked his hips and groaned at the slick heat being generated between the two of them.

Mulder bent his knees and Skinner slowed his pace as he added a second finger. Breathy affirmations greeted his actions, and he shifted his weight, moving up Mulder's body just enough to burrow his face into the joint between Mulder's neck and shoulder. He nibbled and sucked and crooked his fingers and Mulder cried out his name.

More thrusting of hips, shifting of hands and mouths and Skinner pressed hard as he felt the onset of orgasm. Mulder beat him to it, and he felt his lover's muscles contract around his fingers, then pulsing wet heat as Mulder came with a shout. A moment later Skinner was making noises of his own, and their seed mingled on their bellies.

Skinner brought his hand away, and felt Mulder shudder under him. He raised his head from the man's shoulder and offered a soft, almost delicate kiss.

"Spectacular enough for ya?" he inquired, the innocent tone of voice betrayed by his harsh breathing.

"Oh, man.I've gotta read Cosmo more often." Mulder gasped back. They shared a few more gentle kisses, and Skinner moved off of Mulder's body to lie beside him, keeping arms and legs wrapped round him, now in a less frantic embrace. They gazed lovingly into one another's eyes, then Skinner looked around the bed, at the remnants of the flowers and their own disheveled state, and shook his head in amusement.

"I don't suppose that issue had an article on romantic aftermath, did it?"

Mulder laughed and snuggled in close. "Page 99-Sharing The Wet Spot."

"Let's get a subscription."

The candles had to be put out before they fell asleep, the sheets changed, maybe even a shower. But Skinner chose to just hold Mulder tight in his arms for a moment more, feeling sated and happy and.just a little romantic.

* * *

Title: Songs of the South 4: Wrap Your Arms Around Me  
Author: Goddess Michele  
Fandom: X-Files  
Pairing: M/Sk  
Category: slash  
Rating: PG13, if that  
Status: done  
Spoilers: all season 8 "Mulder's back" eps, with just a little Via Negativa thrown in for flavor.  
Archive: Anywhere, just leave my name on it.  
Feedback: Yes, PLEASE!   
Beta: none, but all suggestions are welcome.  
Disclaimer: C.C., Fox and 1013 own them, I'm just borrowing them for fun, not profit, and I promise to return them only slightly bruised, but in that good 'thank you sir and may I have another?' way.  
Summary: Like Fox and Walter's Mood Music, this, and the stories that follow, will be stand-alones that may or may not go together, depending on how the mood strikes me. This is a seriously twisted look at what might have happened when our favorite Fox came back from the dead. AU I suppose, although it might be on the cutting room floor, you never know. Dedicated to that special couple, and you know who you are-one of you needs to get therapy, one of you needs to get laid! Special thanks to Chad for the music and so much more.

* * *

Walter Skinner was exhausted. He felt like he could barely keep his eyes open as he looked around the room at his co-workers, superiors and subordinates. They all stared back at him curiously, and he realized he had missed a question. After a moment to glance down at the open file folder in front of him, he bluffed his way through a reply, wondering dimly if this Follmer fellow could be trusted. Somehow he doubted it. He took in the men and women around the conference table again as someone else started speaking, saw that Kersh was glaring and Crane was smirking, and he spared a tired thought for the gun hanging in it's holster on the coat rack in the corner with his jacket, and he wondered what would happen, given his current state of mind, if he had it in his hand.

Mulder was alive. It really was the only thing keeping him going, and he knew it. Of course, he hadn't seen him since-since he'd been forced to make the choice. Between Mulder and Scully's baby. In the end it had been the right choice, although it hadn't felt like it at the time. The baby was safe, Mulder was alive and responding to treatment, and Krycek was gone, disappeared back into whatever rat hole he had emerged from to put Walter into the painful position of deciding between his lover, who seemed on the verge of death again, and a child who had yet to experience life. He had another stray thought of guns and bullets and vengeance, then shook it off and tried to concentrate on the rest of the meeting. His focus on staff changes, budget cuts and solve rates didn't last long.

He wanted desperately to see Mulder, but Scully wouldn't allow it. She recited passages from medical journals about infection risks and treatment response times, and he accepted her instructions without argument, assuming she was only doing what was best for Mulder. It didn't stop the need in him, though, only muted it from a stabbing pain to a dull bruising throb. A curious thought about Scully's behavior tried to come into focus, but he ignored it.

After what seemed an eternity, the meeting ended, and Skinner was left alone in his office. He thought he should probably go over whatever notes he'd managed to take during the meeting, make some additional comments, and get the information to Kim to type up for him. Make some attempt at normalcy. Instead, he sat back in his desk chair, removed his glasses, and rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling the onset of a headache. He closed his eyes and wondered if Kim had any Tylenol, or maybe Demerol.

He was back in Raleigh. Back in the cemetery, and he thought it was the day of the funeral, but the sky was black as ink, stars hard bright points in the sky, and the snow was almost gone. He moved forward, towards the grave, wanting to stop himself, unable to control his steps.

"No," his voice came out in a choked whisper. "He's alive."

He paused at the edge of the grave, and could literally feel his tendons creaking in protest as he tried to keep from looking down into that dark, cold hole. He felt the presence of someone beside him, and for a moment he thought it was Scully, and that he would have to hold her and comfort her, to be strong and supportive, and he knew he simply wasn't capable of it anymore. He knew what people thought. Of Scully and Mulder. Their relationship. And his to them. But he was just too tired and too scared to make sense of it all right now. Not when that grave seemed to beckon him with answers to questions he didn't want to ask.

"This is crazy."

He couldn't turn away from the grave, but he recognized John Doggett's skeptical tone. He thought he started to argue with the man, but then the darkness of that hole in the ground seemed to swallow him up, and time jumped.

He was walking away now, away from Doggett, away from the tombstone. A cold wind whipped snow around him and he struggled for purchase on the slushy, icy ground. Mulder lay dead in his arms.

"Skinner!" Doggett's voice sounded far away, and Skinner felt some sort of relief; he thought he was doing the right thing. Suddenly Mulder shifted in his arms, startling him, and his treacherous footing gave way. He fell with a shout and the body in his arms flew forward and hit the ground face first with a sickening thud. Skinner cried out again and scrabbled madly for his lover. The snow, which had been slight and damp only a moment before became thick and obscuring, the flakes swirling twister-like around him, stinging him with sharp edges. He reached Mulder's body and turned him over, calling out his name in a voice full of regret and unshed tears.

The name turned into a rich shout of terror as the old woman opened her eyes and glared at him from the depths of a burial suit much too large for her.

"NO!"

"Sir?"

Skinner sat up so abruptly he nearly tipped his chair over. He struggled to control his breathing, and felt a pain in his chest that he suspected was trying to be a heart attack but lacked the final nail for his coffin.

John Doggett was staring at him, more curious than worried, and Skinner felt himself calming under the man's unflinching pale blue gaze.

"Agent Doggett. I didn't hear you come in." He thought he sounded all right, but Doggett's expression didn't change. He put his glasses on his face and a growl into his voice.

"I must have fallen asleep. What can I do for you, Agent?"

"Via Negativa, sir." Doggett replied, taking a seat in front of the desk.

"What?"

"A nightmare, sir? I seem to recall this scenario. Only the other way around." He offered a grin. "Would you like me to pinch you?"

Skinner shook his head. "I'm fine."

"I think we all are, sir. Although I imagine our Deputy Director will be less than enthused." Doggett was still smiling.

"What are you talking about?"

"Didn't Agent Scully call you sir?" Now Doggett looked even more confused. "I thought for sure, you bein' such a good friend to them and all-"

He jumped to his feet angrily. "Dammit, John, what are you saying?" Sudden hope warred with fierce dread in his heart.

"Agent Mulder, sir. He's awake."

As quickly as the sudden burst of energy had lifted him, an equally powerful weakness in his legs dropped him back into his chair. "Oh my god."

"Agent Scully's been with him all day. Apparently he came outta whatever it was this morning." He paused, frowned thoughtfully, as though trying to resolve his own disbelief in everything that had happened since his re-assignment to the X-Files. "I can't believe she didn't call. Even with their relationship and everything, she should have known that you would be concerned."

"Their relationship." Skinner mulled that statement over for a moment, then: "Has he asked-I mean, has he said anything?"

"I don't know, sir. I saw them briefly this morning, but Agent Scully's determined to be the only one in or out of that room." He smiled a completely sexist and sunny grin that would have gotten him shot had any female agent been within earshot. "You should see her, sir. Pregnant, and glowing like a new bride, but still handing out orders like a man. Protecting him, I guess."

Skinner stood abruptly. "Thank you for telling me, Agent Doggett."

Doggett stood with him. "Are you sure you're okay, sir?"

"Fine. Thank you." He ushered Doggett out of the room as quickly as he could, then barked at Kim to cancel his last two meetings of the day. He found his jacket, gun, and overcoat and was out the door before he could change his mind.

Had Mulder asked for him? he wondered silently as he rode the elevator to the parkade. Why hadn't Scully called him? His mind wandered restlessly as he strode to his car, fumbled for keys, let himself in. Mulder had been through something that Skinner could almost imagine, but a thousand times worse. Did he know where he was? Did he know who he was? The questions burned and nagged as he started the car, and continued as he pulled out of the lot so fast the sound of tires screeching echoed through the concrete walls long after he was gone.

Again the question: Why hadn't Scully called him? She knew what he and Fox meant to each other. She'd never been their biggest supporter, he knew, but she certainly hadn't denied the existence of their relationship. Time spent together, the three of them, had been strained at first, but Skinner had chalked that up to her feelings for him. He and Scully had a history of mistrust, and he knew it wouldn't work itself out overnight.

But now, as he drove through the city at what was surely ticket-getting speed, he began to re-evaluate her behaviors, her actions. He seemed to remember lingering glances that might not have been inappropriate, but now appeared suspicious. He knew what the gossip mill at the bureau had to say about his lover and his partner, and he realized that while Scully had never encouraged the stories, she hadn't exactly discouraged them, either. He remembered Mulder teasing him about it, telling him that he and Walter would dance a tango through the steno pool when they retired, and that would really give them something to talk about.

Skinner had known from the start, as had Mulder, that discretion was going to be paramount in any relationship they formed, but now he wondered if Scully had been practicing discretion, or denial.

He thought about Doggett's words. "Protecting him." and got a vision of a vixen standing over her mate, teeth bared, eyes dark and piercing and sparking with something rabid and insane. He shook the thought away with a visible effort, and tried to tell himself that Scully wasn't like that.

The closer he got to the hospital, the more thoughts formed in his head, and the angrier he got. He realized on some distant level that he was just projecting his fears and worries onto the closest pregnant red-head, but it didn't stop the flow of images in his mind, nor the unhappy story he was piecing together from said images.

Mulder had always maintained that he loved Scully and she loved him, but that it was a bond more fraternal than lusting, and neither one was going to risk what they had for what society considered the correct definition of intimate.

By the time he was parking the car, he was wondering just how Scully defined her relationship with Mulder, and if she had deliberately not called him. He didn't want to believe it, but he couldn't make himself not believe it, either.

Striding down the corridor, he told himself that it had been a mistake on Scully's part. Just a mistake. Like Scully telling his secretary that Mulder liked to sleep on the left side of the bed had been a mistake. Like Scully showing Holly pictures of the two of them taken during one of the Bureau's annual Christmas parties, images of Fox holding his best friend and grinning like an idiot had been a mistake. Never mind that he and Mulder had left said party early, lusting so desperately for one another that they'd barely made it back to his apartment with their clothing intact.

A security guard he didn't recognize was opening the door to Mulder's room to allow a nurse he did recognize to leave. The nurse was smiling, and as Skinner approached her, he thought he heard her mutter "stubborn bastard."

"Ma'am," he said, catching her attention. "That man in there. Is he-?" He wasn't sure how to finish. 'Is he all right?' seemed too stupid, 'Is he asking for me?' seemed too obvious, and 'Is he considering marrying Agent Scully?' seemed too bitchy.

The nurse recognized him not only as the man who had admitted her patient, but also as the man who had yanked said patient off of life-support. That the results had been positive was not lost on her, but she still viewed him with some small measure of distrust, and Skinner caught her passing a look to the security guard before she spoke.

"Mr. Mulder is resting comfortably," she told him. "Although we had to threaten restraints before he understood that he wouldn't be leaving the hospital today. If it wasn't for his-"she faltered a moment. "His-Agent Scully, I suppose he would've been much more difficult to handle."

"What do you mean?"

The nurse flinched, and he realized he'd barked at her.

"I'm sorry, ma'am." He offered her his most disarming grin, and she relaxed some. "I was just wondering about his condition.and Agent Scully's."

"They're both fine, now." She smiled wistfully. "Agent Scully's a lucky woman. And Mister Mulder is lucky to have her."

This was obviously a new definition of 'lucky' that Skinner had never been privy to before, and he didn't think he liked it. "Where is Agent Scully now?" A part of him was desperate to see his lover, but he didn't like the way the security guard was looking at him, and he needed answers first.

"She's in the lab, running some tests. The doctors have told her that she should be resting herself, what with the baby and all, but she seems determined to monitor every aspect of the man's recovery herself. She's very devoted."

"Yeah." He turned towards the elevators "She is."

He found her in the lab, sitting on a high stool and making notes in a worn field journal. Her glasses were perched on the end of her nose, and she held a vial of what appeared to be blood in one small hand while she wrote with the other.

She glanced up, startled when he knocked on the door, and he saw a flash of something mean and frightened and wholly un-Scully-like cross her face. Then she was standing and removing her glasses and rearranging her features into something cold and neutral.

"No one called me," he said quietly, thinking '*you* didn't call me.'

She didn't reply for a moment, and he could almost see her thoughts. They weren't kind. In fact, the look on her face seemed to confirm all the suspicions he'd been having on the way over here. Again he saw her struggle internally over something, and she said,

"I know. We thought-"

He didn't let her finish. All of his emotions were suddenly there; his fears for his lover. His concerns for work, his future, Krycek's death threats, even Scully's baby. But mostly it was Mulder, and the thought of life without him, that brought all of it to a head, and he snapped at her.

"Don't give me any crap, Scully!"

"Sir--?"

"A man's life is hanging in the balance here, Scully--*my* man's life, not to put too fine a point on it, and you didn't think that warranted one damned phone call?"

"If you'll just let me explain-"

"What have you been doing here all day? Playing 'Fox and Dana, sitting in a tree.'? Did you not stop and think for a moment that someone else might have just more than a passing interest in his recovery?"

"Shut up!"

He recoiled as if slapped. He had been on the receiving end of years of Scully's sarcasm, dry tones, cold answers and tearful confessions. But this outburst was raw and hysterical in its anger, and he knew he was right.

"I talked to Agent Doggett, you know. How many other people, yourself included, have you been trying to fool with a handful of long-suffering looks and matronly sighs?"

He stepped further into the room and she backpedaled awkwardly, her blue eyes wide with unspoken protests of innocence.

"It would have been too much to have to try and-" she said tentatively. "I mean, you know how it would look, and with the baby, and-"

It was too late for her attempt at damage control. Skinner had repressed so much for so long-every feeling, every thought, and every memory. And now, with hope bursting in his heart like fireworks to the nth level, he would not deny himself. Nor be denied. Not even by this woman who was inextricably linked to him in so many ways.

"The hell!" he was roaring now, and still advancing. She flinched and backed into the stool she'd been sitting on earlier. It tipped with a crash, and neither of them noticed. He got up in her face so close his body brushed her distended stomach, but she was between him and the counter now, and had no avenue of escape.

"This isn't about explanations! This is only about you, Dana! About some sort of deliberate obfuscation on your part, where you seem to have convinced everyone, even yourself, that you've just gone from widow to bride, and you know damned well that isn't the case-"

"But sir-"

She was crying now, fat tears magnifying her pupils, and he suddenly realized that he was gripping her upper arms-he could feel slender muscle and bone under his fingers.

"Oh, shit," he muttered, dropping his hands to his side and backing away.

Still crying, Scully put her hands to her stomach and slid away from him in the space he left between them.

"Dana-" he murmured.

She looked up at him, tears glistening on her cheeks.

"Bastard," she hissed, and despite his anger with her, it hurt.

Their relationship had never been an easy one, but until this moment, he'd thought they'd achieved some sort of acceptable balance. He knew she'd never been happy with her partner's choice of him as a lover, but she'd gone along with it. Definitely more for Mulder's sake than his own. Too much time spent watching them together, and he knew the level of intimacy that they shared. He had been extraordinarily careful not to stand in the way of that friendship. But only now did he realize that there was more to it. Even Fox had been unaware of the feelings she apparently had been harboring.

"You're a bastard," she said again, but defeat thickened the words. "But I'm a bitch, so I guess that puts us even."

Her words surprised him, but not as much as her next ones. "He's been asking for you."

His eyes widened as he realized the depths of her deception, and he jammed his hands deep into his pockets as he fought off a sudden maddening urge to strangle her.

"What did you tell him?" His tone was soft but deadly.

"Nothing," she replied flatly. "Just bland reassurances that he was going to be all right." She sniffled loudly. "Nothing new for us, I suppose."

"So he has no idea that I'm here. That I've been here." Skinner was still speaking in that quiet voice that was more frightening to Scully than his loudest blustering tirades, and she found she couldn't meet his eyes. She shook her head in answer to his questions.

"So, you knew he wanted to see me, and you didn't call me. Didn't even acknowledge the request. Is that correct, Agent Scully?" His voice shook with barely restrained anger.

"I didn't mean to-"

"Yes. You did." He tipped her face up to look him in the eye, and his words were cold and clear. "Dana, I can't tell you the number of times that Fox told me that you were his best friend. His only friend, sometimes, and that he loved you very much. I want you to think about that. And I want you to ask yourself what kind of friend you are being to him now."

He left her weeping into her hands.

***

At the door to Mulder's room, he paused, suddenly nervous. He didn't know what to expect. It had been so long since he'd been able to look into his lover's eyes. Able to hear his voice. While there had been some measure of satisfaction in watching the rise and fall of the man's chest while he'd been unconscious, it wasn't the same, somehow. And now he felt.he didn't know what he felt. Trepidation, maybe, uncompromising love, definitely, but.

"Ah, the hell with it." He steeled himself and pushed open the door.

He'd never forget the first sight of his lover alive and conscious.

Mulder was standing with his back to the door, apparently doing something to the bed, and his back and ass were exposed through the ties of the hospital gown he was wearing. He didn't turn around when he heard the door, but his words were clear enough:

"If you think my complacency can be bought with a bowl full of orange Jello, Nurse Moore, let me tell you-" He finished whatever he was doing and started to turn as he spoke. The final words died in his mouth as he realized that there was no nurse there, no Jello. Only Skinner. His eyes grew wide and disbelieving, and his mouth worked soundlessly.

Walter's vision blurred as tears formed in his eyes, and he could think of only one thing to say.

"Hey."

Some wordless sound came out of Mulder's mouth, and he groped behind himself for the bed as his legs buckled under him.

Skinner was across the room in a heartbeat, and he gathered his suddenly boneless lover up in a frantic embrace that made them both groan.

Mulder took his face in his hands and their eyes met, held, locked.

"Oh my god." his words came out in a whispery sigh. "Is it really you, Walter?"

His reply was a soft kiss and a tightening of his arms. He thought if he spoke, or let go of Mulder, the dream would evaporate, and it wouldn't be true. And he didn't think he could stand it if that happened. He closed his eyes and stroked his hands over his lover's body. Mulder tasted like medicine and smelled like industrial soap, and it was ambrosia to his senses. One hand instinctively made its way into Mulder's hair, as it had so many times in the past, and he relished the familiar feel of the silky strands, longer than he remembered, but just fine for all that. He could feel Mulder's heart beating next to his own, and he knew he never wanted to lose that rhythm ever again.

After a time, he reluctantly loosened his hold on the man and opened his eyes.

Mulder's eyes were wet with unshed tears, and he offered Skinner a trembling smile.

"Hey," he whispered, and Skinner smiled back, then gave him a stern 'we're in the office and you just lost another cell phone' look.

"You shouldn't be out of bed," he declared. This got him another grin, and a surprising nod of acquiescence, and he helped Mulder back into the bed, smoothing the covers over him longer than he had to, then took Mulder's hands in his own and they were silent for a few minutes, little shifts in fingers and thumbs speaking more eloquently than all the words in the universe could.

Mulder's eyes roamed restlessly around the room, never catching Skinner's gaze. Finally, he looked down at their hands, then up at his lover's face.

"I asked for you," the confession came out of him in a breathy wounded sigh. "Didn't Scully tell you?"

Skinner didn't reply right away. He thought about what Mulder must have been thinking when he did that. He thought about how the man must have felt lying here all day, wondering about his lover, wondering about himself. He thought about what Scully had done, and why she'd done it, and how Mulder felt about her. When he finally spoke, his words came out calm and easy.

"You must have dreamed it, Fox," he said. "We don't know what exactly happened, or how you-well, you know." He shrugged, thinking this was not the time to get into all the technical bullshit, and Mulder seemed to agree with him. "But Scully called me as soon as you came back to us."

"I knew she would." His feelings for his best friend shone clear in his eyes, and Skinner didn't regret his deception for a moment, although he knew that he and Scully were going to have to work this out somehow. And soon. But for now it was enough to just stand here and feel his lover moving, breathing, living. To be able to look into his eyes and see him looking back. To know that they had somehow been given a second chance. And he knew he would never let anyone take any of it away from him again.

* * *

Title: Songs of the South 5: Runaway  
Author: Goddess Michele  
Fandom: X-Files  
Pairing: M/Sk  
Category: slash  
Rating: PG13  
Status: done  
Spoilers: Hard to have season nine spoilers when there's only been two episodes, but if you haven't seen the premiere, I don't think this will spoil it for you. There's also a brief homage to my favorite Dreamland dialogue.  
Archive: Anywhere, just leave my name on it.  
Feedback: Yes, PLEASE!   
Beta: none, but all suggestions are welcome, and encouraged, positive and negative--this one was a bitch, folks, let me know if I screwed it up.  
Disclaimer: C.C., Fox and 1013 own them, I'm just borrowing them for fun, not profit, and I promise to return them only slightly bruised, but in that good 'thank you sir and may I have another?' way.  
Summary: Like Fox and Walter's Mood Music, this, and the stories that follow, will be stand-alones that may or may not go together, depending on how the mood strikes me. Please note, however, that this story is part of the Vacation universe. Special thanks to Chad for the music and so much more.

* * *

"I don't know where Mulder is. I don't know that I'd tell you if I did."- Walter Skinner, Nothing Important Happened Today

J. EDGAR HOOVER BUILDING  
NEARLY MIDNIGHT

WALTER:

It's only been three days, and it feels like an eternity. I can't stop thinking about him. I can't stop seeing the way he looked last time I saw him. That look of miserable determination on his face. I'd seen that look on his face in a hundred meetings before. It never pained me the way it did this time.

He didn't want to go. He made that very, very clear. Just as clear as I made it to him. I didn't want him to leave. Ever. Neither one of us had a choice though. Kersh and the rest of the alien version of the Sopranos saw to that.

It wasn't that they'd simply put a hit on him. He's been in more dangerous situations than that before, and it certainly never deterred him, never gave him pause in his unending quest, never scared him. But this time it was different. He wasn't afraid of what could happen to himself. No, those sons-of-bitches had gone even further this time. They'd dragged out every last one of his relationships, flawed or otherwise, and threatened them too. Pragmatic bunch of bastards that they are, they knew how to get to him. I remember his last words.

"They'll kill her, Walter. And the baby, too. And you. I won't be a party to that. I don't know what it is that I have that they want, or that they fear, but I won't allow you, or Dana or Will to suffer because of me. I won't!"

I'd soothed him as best I could, unable to soothe myself. And when all was said and done, he had to go, and I had to let him. But I made him promise to get in touch with me somehow. To keep in contact in some way that they couldn't trace. To let me know that he was all right. And, although I kept this last to myself, to let me know that he still loved me. As pathetic as that sounded, I knew that his support, even from afar, would be the only thing that could keep me from going completely ape-shit. Especially knowing that I would have to get back on that line-the one that I wouldn't let him cross for so long, and that I eventually leaped over myself. The line that Agent Doggett would be trying to cross any damned minute now, and I was going to have to be the one to keep him away. To protect Scully, the baby, my lover, and myself I was going to have to play bad guy again, and that thought was like a stone in my heart. No matter the circumstances, Mulder's abduction and all the craziness that followed, I had felt a sort of sneaking relief at being able to be just as plain and open as I wanted to be about where my allegiances lay. And now I'd be lying again. It wasn't going to go over well with anyone, including myself, and I had to have Mulder with me, even just in spirit, to remind me that I was doing the right thing.

So I let him go, had myself a good cry after he left the apartment, put aside my feelings, and went to Scully. She had a good cry herself, and then we put on our 'no biggie' faces and went back to our lives, such as they were.

And here it is, three days later, and I've had to deal with Agent Reyes and her zingy theories, Kersh and his veiled threats, and most of all, the look of profound disappointment in John Doggett's eyes when he said; "You're afraid of them."

I am afraid. But not for the reasons he thinks. I'm not afraid of losing my reputation, my freedom, or even my life, really. I'm only afraid for Mulder.

But none of that matters now.

It's late. The bureau is, for all intents and purposes, shut down. I sent Kim home hours ago, and the only person I've seen in the halls is the janitor, sweeping up sawdust and lies in equal measure. The only sounds the squeak of his supply cart, and the hum of my computer. The only light comes from the hall. My office is dark, save for the computer screen. The message sits in my inbox, short, cryptic and unarmed. I read it, re-read it, read it again, and feel something I don't have words for.

To: surly1@accesscomm.ca  
From: unclebadtouch@sister.com  
Subject: Your account

Marty:  
Either everyone that my eyes are tracking takes heart, else why are they eagerly replying? Get a train east and take my ideas. Don't nod-I got her token. Right on our money: $42. Let's open venues everywhere.

Una

\--------------

It's a trick a boy scout could figure out, and one only a boy scout would bother with. I can't help but laugh softly, even as I'm thinking he's taking an awful risk. Then I glance at that return address, and I laugh a little harder. Bless the Internet, I think, for making it so easy. I stab the reply button, glancing around the room with my lover's inherited paranoia, but even the janitor appears to have left for the night.

To: unclebadtouch@sister.com  
From: surly1@accesscomm.ca  
Re: Your account

Yes.

\--------------

It will be enough. I check the time of his email, and then look at my watch. Then back at the computer. Send. Then Delete, Empty Trash, Sign Out.

I'm out the door a moment later, trying hard not to grin, lest Big Brother be watching. It's a difficult task at best, but I hang onto my grim countenance, willing myself to look like just another overworked underpaid middle-aged bureaucrat with a briefcase full of bad news, until I have not only reached my car, but pulled said car out of the car park and driven several miles away. Only then do I allow myself the luxury of a smile.

WATERGATE HOTEL  
MIDNIGHTISH

MULDER:

'You have mail', my laptop proclaims, and I almost jump out of my skin. I don't move for a minute, letting my heart rate go back down and staring at the screen of the computer, which is the only light in the room. Then I set my gun and the mystical ice pick of doom down on the bed beside me and reach for the computer, saying a quick but fervent thank you to Scully for convincing me that a laptop was a valuable field investigator's tool.

I notice my hands are shaking as I do a quick virus scan, then open my mailbox, and I try to still them, but adrenaline doesn't dissipate as easily as, say caffeine, and there's plenty of both in my system right now. I manage to type in my password on the second try, (take the stuttering extra d's out of 'badger' and it works just fine), then squint as a single word reply comes up on the screen and sits innocently on a field of white light.

Yes.

I let out a breath I don't even realize I've been holding, and it turns into a shaky laugh. Typical Walter, I think. One word, three letters, and yet they even look surly just sitting innocently on my screen.

It was a stupid stunt, and part of me knows that. The same part of me that is wondering, in my usual paranoid style, if this is really from Walter. If he got the message. If he understood it. I glance at the door, then to the weapons on the bed, then back to the screen.

I have to believe it's him. I have to believe that no one intercepted my email. I remember it happening to Scully, and how the Gunmen had discovered it, and I wonder, but only for a moment. Then with ease I restore my faith in Walter Skinner, and I delete the message and sit back on the bed again, gun in one hand, alien weapon in the other. I don't know that either will be effective if my faith is misguided, but I have to hope.

I want to believe.

Time passes as I sit in the dark and wait, and my mind conjures up images from the immediate past-Krycek, Doggett, Billy Miles, Scully.I know I'm doing the right thing, but it's my nature to second guess, and I do it now. I wonder about the motivations, not just of myself, but also of everyone else. And I wonder how we all fit into this--this-I hate to say it, but this conspiracy that seems to affect every one. My mind wanders, and I let it, knowing that it's a gift of some sort. I don't question it, although I sometimes regret having it (a stray thought of Patterson filters through, and I squash it like a cockroach before it can hurt), and I know, too, that if I can just find the patterns, and the motivations, I can get myself and the people I love back on track. Back to that safe place where we can be together, and live somewhat normal lives. Maybe.

I carefully set my gun down beside me and reach for the paper cup of coffee sitting on the nightstand. It's barely lukewarm now, but I gulp it down nevertheless. Threats of alien colonization may come and go, I think, but Starbuck's is forever.

A sharp rap on the door. My cup goes flying and I scrabble madly for the gun. Again I have to calm myself before I can move. My heart feels like it's trying to burst right out of my chest, if it doesn't crawl out of my mouth first. Another knock, this time sounding impatient.

I slide silently off the bed and across the carpeted floor to the door. Leaving the locks on for the time being, I peek out the spyglass.

A dark brown eye peers back at me, then pulls back to reveal my lover in all his balding, surly, beacon-in-the-night glory, and I say a quick prayer of thanks to Scully's god for allowing him to get my message, understand my message and respond to my message. Then of course, I assume the worst, and prepare for it.

"Walter?" After nearly a week of not speaking, my whisper isn't an act. There's no reply and I look out the peephole again. He's frowning thoughtfully, and I wonder about that for a moment, then, just as I understand what he's doing, what he's thinking, he speaks:

"Puppy?"

It has to be him. I don't think even alien torture could have pried that secret word from my lover's lips, and I feel a weight lift off me. But I still need to be sure. I put the gun in my pants pocket for the time being, hide the other weapon in the palm of my right hand, and use the left one to unlock the door.

"Come in." The words come out shakier than I intended, but it's not just fear. I can hear the longing in my voice, and part of me relishes the love I have for this man, and his for me, but part of me hates it, too. Hates that there's another person in my life now that I care about and that 'they' can harm. And have harmed. Because of me.

I move back and he steps into the room cautiously, looking around, not seeing much because of the dark, but I appreciate the gesture just the same. My Walter's always been a 'look before you leap' kinda guy.

I close the door behind him and throw the lock, giving it a tug, just to be on the safe side. He's moved further into the room, and his back is to me, but I can see that he is going to turn around now, and I have to do this quick. Before he has time to react with anything besides a startled "oof!" as I knock the breath from him, I ram my body into his, throwing him forward onto the bed. I shove the gun into his side, and grab his shirt collar.

WATERGATE HOTEL, ROOM 42  
AFTER MIDNIGHT

Skinner fell forward with a startled grunt as Mulder tackled him and knocked the air from his lungs. He started to protest, started to rise up off the bed, and then felt the press of Mulder's gun in his side, just under the rib cage. Of all the things he knew in the world, and there were lots of them, the one thing he knew for sure just then was that getting shot in the gut by his lover would be the crappiest thing that could happen to him tonight.

Mulder pinned Skinner to the bed, jabbed his gun into his side, and pulled hard enough on his shirt collar that he heard buttons pop. He squeezed and stroked the thick neck under him, and his struggling lover immediately stilled.

"Mulder, it's really me," Skinner said, keeping his voice calm and neutral. Mulder continued probing.

"Shut up." He couldn't find any bumps, any alien anomalies, but that really didn't prove anything.

"Mulder, listen to me. Your name is Fox William Mulder. Your badge number is JTT047101111. Your father's name is debatable, your best friend's name is Dana Scully-she's a forensic scientist and she thinks you're too good for me."

No reply from the man currently straddling his body and threatening to shoot him, if he didn't strangle him first.

"Um.lately for lunch you've been meeting me on that bench by the fountain, even though I tell you it's dangerous for us to be seen together."

"Anyone could get that information, you know."

Skinner heard the skepticism in his lover's voice, but his demanding inspection of his neck seemed to be slowing down, and there was a lessening of the pressure in his side.

"Even that Scully thing?"

"Give me something else."

"C-Sharp."

"Excuse me?"

"C-Sharp," he said again, patiently. "It's the note you hit when I make you cum."

"Jesus, it is you."

Skinner heard both a smile and shaky relief in Mulder's voice as his lover slipped off him and offered him a hand as he turned to stand up. He straightened out his shirt, frowned at the lost buttons, and then adjusted his glasses.

"Not quite the romantic reception I was expecting," he commented dryly. Mulder shrugged.

"I had to be sure."

"Are you sure now?" As he spoke, Skinner took the other man into his arms. Gave him a prolonged kiss before he could answer and moved his hands restlessly up and down Mulder's back.

"How about now?"

Mulder's response was a soft moan and a hard press of his body to Skinner's. They kissed and groped their way back to the bed, and this time Mulder pulled Skinner down on top of him, relishing the weight of the bigger man's body as Skinner's kisses became more demanding, and his hands worked at Mulder's clothes.

Mulder dropped his gun.

As could be expected, their coupling was desperate and intense and as full of fear as it was of love. Their need for one another as frantic and dangerous as the situation they found themselves in, and as sweet and sure as life itself.

Mulder hit C Sharp.

Twice.

WATERGATE HOTEL, ROOM 42  
MUCH LATER

WALTER:

I'll have to wake him before I go, which is too bad, as I suspect he's been living on pretty short sleep rations lately, but I wouldn't want to endanger his life any more than I have just by coming here tonight. For now, however, I'm willing to just lie here and let him sleep in my arms. Willing to stand guard, to allow him some measure of peace, to protect him.

I glance down at him as he makes some sleepy noise and squirms in my embrace. He stills when I stroke my fingers lightly over his cheek, noting the raspy stubble and thinking that face-fur is a really bad look for him. Not to mention the damage it does. I grin ruefully and lick kiss-swollen lips, and feel the burn his wannabe beard has left on my face.

He makes another slurry noise, and his eyes open suddenly, a little too wide and unsure, and I smile reassuringly at him.

"Hey," I whisper.

"Hey," back, and his voice sounds rusty, but whether it's from a week's disuse, or the strain on his vocal chords in the last couple of hours I don't know. I softly flick an errant lock of hair from his eyes, and he chuckles softly, tightening his arms around me.

"What?"

"C-Sharp," he mutters, still laughing a little. "God, you are such an asshole."

"Whatever gets the job done," I reply amiably, still playing with his hair and wishing fervently that we could just stay here, in this room, in this bed, forever. But I'm too old to play silly kid's games with reality, and I guess he is too, as with a deep sigh of regret he pushes away from me and sits up, swinging his long legs over the side of the bed. Not looking at me, he asks quietly,

"How's Scully?"

I move then, too, knee-walking across the bed behind him and putting my hands on his shoulders.

"She's holding up as well as can be expected, Mulder. Worried about you, of course, but she hardly holds the monopoly on that."

He presses back into my hands, although I'm not sure if he's even aware he's doing it. I knead the muscles in his back a little harder, though.

"And you?" There's more strain in his voice now.

"Well, aside from the grinding humiliation of letting John, Brad and Alvin think I'm completely neutered, I'm doing the best that I can." I don't have to say "..without you." He knows what I'm thinking.

"I'm sorry," he says, tipping his head back to look up at me. "You don't deserve this. But I need to-"

I lean forward and silence him with a kiss. "It doesn't matter what they think, Fox." I deliberately snarl a little, to make sure he's hearing me, then slip around on the bed to sit beside him and take him back into my arms. "You and I, and Dana, too, we know the truth."

"What truth is that, Walter?" he smiles an oddly shy grin at me, and I am reminded again of all that this man means to me, like I needed reminding.

"I love you." The words come out muffled as I press my mouth to his, but he understands, and he lets the same three words caress my lips in return. I can't leave, I think. But I have to. And if I don't do it now, I may not have the courage to do it at all.

I stand and start reaching for my clothes. He watches in solemn silence, his eyes tracking my movements.

He's still sitting naked on the bed when I slip on my shoes, and make my way to the door unescorted.

"Be careful." I can think of nothing else to say.

"Be strong," he replies.

I walk out, let the door slip shut behind me, and rest against it for a moment, tears threatening. I don't hear him moving, and I wonder again at what he's doing, what we're doing, and I hope and pray it's the right thing.

From behind the door I hear a muffled sob, and I hastily move away, knowing it will be my undoing if I have to listen to him cry, and his undoing if I stay to listen.

We are going to get through this, I tell myself as I walk away. Somehow, we are. I am going to do whatever I need to. Whatever it takes to make this right for us again. And I don't care what that is.

I reach the lobby, and see that it's started to rain. I've no umbrella with me, but I think I'm strong enough to handle a minor annoyance like this.it won't be all that I have to be strong enough to handle in the days to come, I'm sure.

* * *

Title: Songs of the South 6: In Too Deep  
Author: Goddess Michele  
Fandom: X-Files  
Pairing: M/Sk  
Category: slash  
Rating: NC17  
Status: done  
Spoilers: Triangle  
Archive: Anywhere, just leave my name on it.  
Feedback: Yes, PLEASE!   
Beta: none, but all suggestions are welcome.  
Disclaimer: C.C., Fox and 1013 own them, I'm just borrowing them for fun, not profit, and I promise to return them only slightly bruised, but in that good 'thank you sir and may I have another?' way.  
Summary: Like Fox and Walter's Mood Music, this, and the stories that follow, will be stand-alones that may or may not go together, depending on how the mood strikes me. Thought I'd try another first time piece. I suspect they got at it long before this, but I always wondered about those flowers. Special thanks to Chad for the music and so much more.

* * *

"Sir, may I speak with you a moment?"

Skinner looked up from the files on his desk, surprised to see Fox Mulder standing in his doorway. He glanced at his watch and realized that he had sent Kim home hours ago, and had lost track of time mired down in paperwork. He looked back up at Mulder.

'He looks like hell,' he thought.

Mulder was leaning heavily on the doorframe. His eyes were clear, but dark smudges beneath them bespoke of either great fatigue, or an experiment with eyeliner gone horribly wrong, and Skinner didn't think that Mulder wore makeup.

His suit was clean and pressed, but hung on his slim frame, the shirt looked to be a size too big as well, and his 'I dress in the dark' choice of tie was garish even by Mulder's standards.

Skinner suddenly remembered that Mulder was still on sick leave. He'd been given a week to recuperate from his adventure in the Bermuda Triangle, but apparently he felt that two days was plenty.

Skinner disagreed.

"Agent Mulder," he said, rising from his chair and moving to greet the younger man. "I didn't expect you back so soon."

Mulder smiled lamely. "You can't keep a good man down, sir," he muttered. He was still leaning on the doorframe for support, and as Skinner got closer to him, he extended his hand.

"Come in and sit down, Agent Mulder, before you fall down."

Mulder took his hand and allowed himself to be discreetly guided to one of the two chairs in front of Skinner's desk.

Skinner remembered having Mulder help him in much the same way after he'd been shot by Luis Cardinal, and then he remembered that he hadn't taken all of his sick leave either. He put aside his patented 'you need to take care of yourself' speech for the time being, and sat on the corner of the desk, looking down at his agent.

"What can I do for you, Mulder?" he asked, not smiling, but rearranging his features into something non-threatening and almost kind.

Mulder rubbed the non-existent bruise on his cheek, concentrated on his shoes, and didn't reply.

"Should you even be here?" Skinner's voice held it's usual surly tone, overlaid with shades of disbelief, but Mulder thought he heard something else there. Something that spoke of caring beyond a supervisor/agent relationship. It was why he was here now, and why he suddenly found himself at a loss for words.

"Fox-"

That got his attention. He looked up at Skinner and saw that a worried frown was creasing his features.

"Are you okay?" Concerned words that soothed him slightly and helped him find his voice.

"I'm fine, sir," he replied. "I just had something that I needed to ask you. Something about last week."

Skinner's mind was suddenly awash with a barrage of images: Arguing with Agent Scully in his office, watching her stalk out angrily, her last words pounding in his head. Then making the calls against all good judgment, getting the information for her, trying to reach her on the phone. The kiss in the elevator."What you've done.for Mulder." Putting on his best pussy-whipped face for the powers that be on the fifth floor, wanting to wring Kersh's fat neck the whole time. Still in his office hours later when a hasty phone call from Frohike sent him rushing for the hospital. Stopping at the florist shop on a whim.

He realized that Mulder was staring at him, and he shook off the memories.

"Sorry, Agent. What was it?"

Again there was a pause, just too long to be comfortable, and Mulder renewed his fascination with his shoes.

"Sir, I just-I wanted to ask you about-I-" He gave Skinner a mixed look, part anguish, part hope. "Sir, the flowers.?"

Skinner suddenly found himself blushing, something he reckoned he hadn't done since around the fifth grade. He opened his mouth, not sure what he was going to say, then closed it with a snap and looked away from Mulder, towards the cabinet in the corner, where the video recorder sat behind locked walnut doors.

With no hesitation, he stood and moved behind the desk, saying, "Right. I have that information for you, Agent Mulder."

"Wha-?" Skinner's odd reaction did nothing to alleviate Mulder's distress and confusion.

"Right," Skinner said again as he reached for a pen and a pad of paper. "No problem. Everything is in order." He scribbled something hastily on the paper, pushed it across the desk. "I think you'll find this will help your investigation immensely."

Written on the paper were the words, NOT HERE. MEET ME AT CASEY'S IN ONE HOUR.

Mulder took the note, stood shakily, and locked eyes with the older man.

"Thank you, sir." He turned without another word and walked slowly out of the room. Skinner's gaze never wavered until he heard the outer door close. Then he sat down in his chair with an audible sigh, realizing he had less than an hour to figure out what he was going to say to Mulder. How he was going to explain himself. He supposed he would do well to try and explain it to himself, first.

ONE HOUR LATER:

Mulder stood in the bathroom at Casey's, contemplating his reflection in the spotty vanity mirror and wishing like hell that he'd gotten that satanic nose job he'd been considering a couple of years ago.

'He won't show up,' he thought bitterly, then ran his hands through his short spiky hair, failing to neaten it at all.

Skinner glanced at himself in the rearview mirror of his car, and willed his hair to grow. Immediately, nothing happened, and he shut off the vehicle and got out of it with a sigh.

'He won't show up,' he thought bitterly, then straightened his tie almost without thinking and walked into Casey's.

He scanned the room and felt his heart sink as he recognized a dozen faces, all of them colleagues, but none of them Mulder. He took the opportunity to curse his own optimistic stupidity, then, not feeling selfish, took a moment more to think a few dark thoughts about Mulder himself. Not satisfied, he continued his inner monologue as he continued to look around the bar, adding several choice curses for Mulder's partner and how she'd entangled him in this, the flowers that he hadn't even planned to buy, and finally, the Christless Bermuda Triangle that had started this whole mess.

"Sir?"

Skinner turned abruptly at the sound of Mulder's voice and discovered his agent striding quickly up the back hall from the bathroom. A relieved half-grin formed on his face, and he saw it reflected back at him in Mulder's eyes.

"Agent Mulder, I'm glad you came. I didn't know-that is-" he floundered for a moment, then recovered more or less with, "Can I get you a drink?"

"I have one sir. I came right over from the office-I didn't want you-I mean-Can we sit?"

They stared helplessly at one another for a moment, then with a shrug of what he hoped was supreme indifference, Mulder set off through the throng to the booth he had appropriated for himself at the back of the room.

An untouched bottle of Sam Adams sat on the table, and Mulder's trench coat lay in a heap on the seat.

Skinner slid into the booth on the other side of the table from Mulder's coat and drink, shrugged off his own jacket, and a waitress materialized out of the crowd to take his order.

Mulder looked on with envy as Skinner exchanged pleasantries with the girl, made her laugh, and ordered scotch. He himself had spent most of the time prior to Skinner's arrival just trying to flag down the same waitress, and when he'd finally managed to order a beer that he didn't really want in the first place, she'd barely been polite, and hadn't even thanked him for the tip.

Mulder waited until the waitress had left, then slipped into the booth across from Skinner. He toyed with his beer bottle, but didn't drink. He studied the label on the bottle as thought it were the Rosetta Stone, while Skinner contemplated the rings of condensation the bottle was leaving on the table, and neither man seemed pre-disposed to talk until Skinner's drink arrived.

Skinner shared another smile with the waitress, and Mulder wondered if he had ever seen Walter Skinner smile before. Watching a small dimple appear in one of Skinner's cheeks, he knew he had not; even without his photographic memory, that wasn't a sight he would have forgotten.

The waitress moved off and Skinner took a sip of his scotch.

"Glenfiddich," he informed Mulder needlessly.

"Sir.?" Mulder looked back down at his beer bottle, frowned at it, then raised the frown to Skinner's eye level. "About the flowers."

"It-uh-they seemed appropriate."

Mulder snorted and Skinner frowned.

"Sorry, sir. That must be a new definition of appropriate that wasn't in my copy of Webster's."

"I just meant that it's good form to take flowers if you are visiting someone who is in the hospital."

"Oh."

Skinner thought Mulder sounded disappointed, and he felt like he should say something more. He hesitated, and then chastised himself mentally. Wasn't that why they were here? So that they might speak freely, away from the office, away from the walls with ears?

"Well, thank you, sir." A weight seemed to settle on Mulder's shoulders, making him look even more haggard than when he had first entered Skinner's office. "Your 'good form' was appreciated." He pushed his beer aside and reached for his coat, mentally cursing himself for his stupid hopes.

Skinner saw that Mulder was intending to leave, and he realized that he'd be taking their one good chance with him.

"Mulder, wait." He almost reached out for the younger man, then saw he'd gotten his attention without getting physical, and he clutched at his glass instead. "Let me explain."

"No need, sir. I understand. It was my mistake." He was speaking through clenched teeth, and Skinner recognized his own defense mechanism in the other man-disguising hurt as anger. And the last thing he had wanted to do tonight was hurt Mulder. Hadn't he been hurt enough already?

"You weren't mistaken." His voice was so low Mulder had to lean forward and strain to hear him. He spoke the words into the depths of his highball, then looked up at Mulder, who was startled by the raw need his saw smoldering in Skinner's dark eyes.

"Please, Mulder. Sit down."

Mulder found himself taking his seat, unable to pull his gaze from Skinner's.

"Sir."

"You know," Skinner was still speaking quietly, almost to himself. "You could call me Walter. We're not in the office. I'm not even your direct supervisor anymore." Both men flinched, remembering all the trouble that had resulted in Mulder's current reassignment.

"Hell," Skinner continued, "Maybe that's what finally gave me the guts to-"

"Bring me flowers?" Mulder couldn't help but grin at the ridiculousness of that statement.

Skinner smiled back, the same easy quirk of the lips that he'd offered the waitress, and Mulder was suddenly and selfishly glad that this one was for him.

"Fraternization will definitely be harder to prove now."

"Is that what we're doing, sir-Walter?"

"Well, maybe not yet, but I'm hoping that's where we're headed." The smile remained intact, but Mulder read something more serious is Skinner's eyes, and he realized that beneath the gruff, assured words, the older man was floundering, maybe just as badly as he himself was. Somehow this comforted him, and he said, "I was pretty out of it when you came to the hospital."

"I don't doubt it. From the reports, it sounds like you nearly swallowed half the Atlantic."

"I had to ask Scully where the flowers came from," Mulder continued. "I knew the roses were from her-yellow for friendship, you know-and I knew the generic "get-well-soon -so-we-can-give-you-more-shit-work" bouquet was from the bureau." A pause, a creased brow. "But the wildflowers had me stumped. No card." He tried sipping his now warm beer, felt the small taste settle like a rock in his stomach, and pushed the bottle away again.

"You were awake when I brought them." Skinner finished his scotch and signaled to the waitress for another. "I thought you knew. You were talking to all of us. Of course, Langly said you were delirious, but he's never had to listen to any of your 302 requests. How was I supposed to know he was right?" He gave Mulder a teasing grin, and the younger man added it to his growing collection of Skinnersmiles, a list he couldn't have imagined even existing just an hour ago. Then he realized Skinner was speaking again.

"So Scully told you they were from me?"

"Yeah. She thought the gesture was odd but sweet. Of course, that's her general opinion of me, as well." He shrugged a little self consciously, and Skinner thought Scully's opinion was spot-on.

"How odd did she think it was, Mulder?" he asked, suddenly concerned about the perceptive nature of Mulder's partner, and what she might have made of the situation-or more importantly, who she might have told.

"Pretty odd," Mulder said. "But we've talked about you."

"Oh?" Skinner raised an eyebrow. The waitress brought him a fresh scotch, and they waited until she was gone to continue their conversation.

"I don't know if I'm comfortable with the implications of that, Mulder," Skinner said, picking up his new drink.

"I have no secrets from Scully," Mulder replied, quickly and defensively. "I trust her completely." 'And you better, too' was the implied end of the sentence, and although neither one of them had come right out and said "Dana Scully knows we're hot for each other but she's not telling!", Skinner felt better hearing Mulder's affirmation of trust in his partner.

"So, Agent Scully thought that the flowers were odd. Not surprising, I suppose, but the real question here, Mulder, is what did you think?" Skinner sat back with his drink, sipping nonchalantly and trying to appear cool as he waited for Mulder's reply.

Mulder didn't answer right away. He thought back to the exact moment that he'd asked Scully about the flowers, and her somewhat sarcastic response:

"Those delicate blossoms, my friend, are courtesy of one obviously not-so-surly assistant director."

He remembered blushing, something he never did, and Scully teasing him about an office affair. He'd been unable to rise to the bait, though, and it didn't take her long to get serious.

"Maybe he likes you," she had suggested.

He'd laughed derisively

"Okay, maybe he wants to get laid."

This made him roll his eyes.

"All right then, smart guy, what's your theory?" she'd demanded.

He'd shrugged then, unable to imagine why the hell Walter Skinner had bought him flowers. He couldn't imagine Skinner harboring any loving feelings for him, even if he felt that way about the older man.

After Scully had left him for the night, he'd spent a long time just smiling stupidly at that paper spill of flowers, letting the emotions they evoked wash over him and thinking that it was enough. Even if nothing came of it, even if they never spoke of it. He'd fallen asleep feeling comforted and at peace.

And woken with a million questions poised on his lips. He wanted it to be enough, and he couldn't. It was a blessing and a curse, this desperate need in him to pursue the truth, and he knew that his disappointments were as frequent as his victories whenever he crossed the line, forcing others to confront the truth of a situation, no matter the consequences. But he couldn't imagine life any other way, and when he thought about those flowers again, and what they could mean, he knew he had to press. And if this particular sleeping dog had a bite worse than it's bark, well, so be it. At least he'd know.

When he'd gone to Skinner's office, feeling like crap and probably looking it, too, he'd expected to be soundly rebuffed, maybe mocked, even, but it hadn't deterred him.

And now here they were. No one had bitten, or even barked for that matter. And Skinner wanted to know what he thought of the flowers.

"They were a surprise," he said hesitantly. "A pleasant one to be sure, but shocking nevertheless."

"Why such a surprise?" Skinner sounded somewhere between dismayed and relieved. "Surely you must have had some idea." He trailed off thinking of all the giveaways in the past: too many lingering looks; pats on the back that turned into strokes; approving all those crazy 302s.

"No, sir-Walter." 'Old habits die hard', he thought. "Not a clue. How could I?" Before Skinner could reply, he started ticking off points on his fingers. "Supervisor.former Marine.boxer.married!"

Skinner chuckled ruefully, as much at Mulder's accurate description of his duplicity as at his own confused status.

"Fair enough," he said. "So I guess that makes us even."

"You didn't suspect?" Mulder looked skeptical. "I thought office gossip had me firmly entrenched in the Judy Garland fan club."

"Mulder, I keep an ear to the ground, as you may or may not be aware, and I have to tell you that the most persistent rumours about you tend to center on which employee bathroom you and your pretty little partner are favoring for a quick round of Hide The Salami this month."

"Christ!" Mulder looked more disgusted than amused, but Skinner thought he saw a gleam in those changeable hazel eyes. After a moment, Mulder gave him a level look and asked, "So.?"

"So, what?"

"So, which bathroom are we using?"

Skinner laughed, then soberly announced, "I'd tell you, but then I'd have to kill you."

They both laughed at that, and Skinner felt an absurd urge to reach out and take Mulder's hand. Before he could move, Mulder beat him to it. It was a brief motion, just a quick touch of Mulder's palm over the back of his hand, and then it was gone, and he saw that Mulder was scanning the room, trying to see if anyone had noticed.

As paranoid as Skinner sometimes thought Mulder was, he thought his caution now was perfectly legitimate, especially in light of his own compromised situation at work, and he suddenly had an idea of how important this had to have been to the man to make him confront him on it in the office the way he had. Some of his awkwardness seem to fall away at this revelation, and he finished his drink in one quick swallow, then gazed frankly at Mulder.

"Well, I've done the flowers, and the drinks. If I offer you dinner and a movie, do I have a chance?"

Mulder smiled, but it seemed sad to him somehow.

"Dinner and a movie, huh? Let me see." He pulled an invisible day minder out of the air and flipped imaginary pages. "Oh, look, I can pencil you in here between 'no life' and 'playing with myself'."

"That sounds just about right. For both of us." Skinner risked brushing his own hand across the back of Mulder's, and the younger man sighed noisily.

"Dinner and a movie.I can't even think of the last time I."the words trailed off and he stood up abruptly. Skinner stood with him, let him collect his coat and his thoughts, then, summoning up all his courage, he leaned in close to Mulder and whispered,

"I have a DVD player and a dozen take-out menus at home."

Mulder froze, staring wide-eyed at the other man.

END

* * *

Title: Songs of the South 7: Suddenly  
Author: Goddess Michele  
Fandom: X-Files  
Pairing: M/Sk  
Category: slash  
Rating: NC17  
Status: done  
Spoilers: Triangle  
Archive: Anywhere, just leave my name on it.  
Feedback: Yes, PLEASE!   
Beta: none, but all suggestions are welcome.  
Disclaimer: C.C., Fox and 1013 own them, I'm just borrowing them for fun, not profit, and I promise to return them only slightly bruised, but in that good 'thank you sir and may I have another?' way.  
Summary: Like Fox and Walter's Mood Music, this, and the stories that follow, will be stand-alones that may or may not go together, depending on how the mood strikes me. In Too Deep got far too unwieldy for just one chapter, and this song seemed to speak of what happened when Walter got him home, so here's part 2. Special thanks to Chad for the music and so much more.

* * *

Skinner sat in his parked car, watching the lights of the car behind him grow larger, then veer off as the other vehicle pulled into the visitors parking stall next to his own. He noticed his hands clenching and unclenching on the steering wheel, and he pulled them away with a visible effort, then spent a moment or two willing them not to shake. While on the subject, he mentally chastised his stomach for letting those butterflies in, gave a quick silent pep talk to his upper lip and his spine, then sent darkest thoughts of all to his dick, reminding himself that there was a time and a place.

A knock on the window made him jump. He got out of the car quickly and faced Mulder, who was grinning a little sickly at him. He felt his own apprehensions fading when he realized that Mulder was even more nervous. He thought about how badly he wanted this to happen, and how badly Mulder must want it too, but it was going to have to feel right, and be right, and if Mulder was unsure now, or having second thoughts.

"Mulder, are you sure?"

"Sir, right now I'm not sure about too much of anything; except how much I want to do this." He reached for Skinner's hand, held it firmly now that they weren't in public, and Skinner squeezed back gratefully and led him towards the elevator.

"Unfortunately, I don't think I have the slightest idea what 'this' is," Mulder added as they waited for the elevator.

Skinner laughed softly. "I'm with you, Mulder. I don't think there's a chapter covering this situation in the OPR handbook."

The elevator doors opened and they stepped in. Skinner pulled his hand from Mulder's and stabbed the seventeenth floor button with a little more vehemence than the situation required.

When the door closed, Mulder shuddered and groped for Skinner's hand. It was there, and they rode up to Skinner's floor in mostly comfortable silence.

Skinner didn't release Mulder's hand until they were at his apartment door, and then he found himself fumbling with his house keys, finally getting the door open and muttering about the faulty locking mechanism. He hastily found lights, dropped the contents of his pockets on the table by the door, and then turned to Mulder with an offer to take his coat. He felt suspiciously like a high school boy on a date with the prettiest girl in school, and for just a moment he was reminded of Sharon, and how it was between them at the start.

But as Mulder shrugged out of his trench coat, then removed his suit coat as well, Skinner was forcibly reminded that this wasn't Sharon, wasn't a high school cheerleader, wasn't even a dead hooker who practiced safe sex. This was Fox Mulder, a man he'd known for years, a man he'd admired for just about as long, and a man he'd secretly lusted over since day one. A man.

"I'll hang these up. Have a seat. There's the couch, or chairs. Would you like a drink?"

"Walter, you're babbling."

Skinner opened his mouth to growl something at Mulder's almost insolent tone, then caught the younger man's eye, and realized that none of this was going to be easy. Mulder's stance in the doorway was controlled and comfortable, but Skinner could see how tightly he was holding himself, could spot a giveaway tick in his cheek, and a conspicuous hunch to his shoulders. He suspected that if Mulder didn't have his lips pressed into a thin line that was trying to be a smile but failing pretty badly, he would be babbling a little himself. As before, Mulder's discomfort, as well hidden as it was, lent some comfort to him, and he was able to smile at Mulder's words and turn to the closet with their jackets, saying,

"What would you like to eat, Mulder?"

A muttered reply that he didn't quite catch, but he let it be, and busied himself with the coats as Mulder made his way into the living room.

Mulder looked around the spacious room, mildly amused to think of himself as an invited guest, and not a surprise visitor in the dead of night. His roving eyes found the couch, the stereo and television, the VCR and DVD players, both state of the art, and the bookshelves. All screamed out for his attention, but he paused at none of them. He gave the bar a longer look, but kept moving until he was standing in front of the balcony door. He looked out on the dark space and swore he could almost see Alex Krycek handcuffed there.

He felt Skinner's presence behind him, but didn't turn as something alien and frankly sexual lit a fire in the pit of his stomach. Pulling his gaze back from the balcony, he could just make out his and Skinner's reflections in the glass door. He watched with almost no objectivity as Skinner brought his hands up to rest on his shoulders, and a shaky sigh issued from his mouth.

Skinner kept his hands still for a moment, then rubbed softly, then stopped again, as if gauging the response. When none was forthcoming, he squeezed a little harder, and got another sigh for his efforts.

"You seem tense," he whispered.

"I am tense."

"I am, too."

Mulder turned to face Skinner, and the older man kept his grip on his shoulders, almost inviting an embrace. Mulder kept his hands balled into fists and jammed into his pants pockets.

"Then maybe this isn't such a good idea," he said. "I mean, if you're uncomfortable with me being here, and-"

"That's not it," Skinner cut him off. "You should know that if I didn't want you here, I wouldn't have asked you."

Mulder knew that to be true. Skinner was a lot of things, but he definitely didn't have that extra politeness gene in him that allowed him to give up his home to guests just because it was a nice thing to do. Again, Mulder was reminded of the fact that he had been here before, barging his way in without asking, and Skinner had allowed it. That told him as much as he needed to know about whether or not he was welcome here.

Skinner kept his hands moving softly over Mulder's shoulders, trying to convey the sincerity of his words into the younger man through touch. Mulder didn't return the gesture, but he was making no attempt to move away, and Skinner viewed this with some hope. He thought again of high school dates of the past, and decided that maybe the old ways were the best ways, sometimes, and that one of them was going to have to take charge of the situation, or it was going to end badly.

"Could we have this conversation sitting down?" he asked quietly.

A sharp nod, and Skinner stepped back, allowing Mulder to re-cross the room to the large couch.

Mulder didn't sit so much as fall onto the couch. He gave the firm leather an appraising glance as if weighing its merits against his own furniture. Then he looked up at Skinner, glanced pointedly to his left, and back up at the other man.

His gaze held all the weight of a barked command, and Skinner found himself moving forward almost against his will. He sat down gingerly next to Mulder and gave him a level stare.

"Better." It wasn't a question, but Mulder gave a brief nod of agreement anyway.

"Now what?" he asked.

Skinner took a deep breath. "As I see it, we have several options here," he said, sitting forward and reaching into a small drawer on the side of the coffee table.

Mulder only had time to formulate a dozen or so 'options', at least half of which involved Skinner sans shirt, and then the man was fanning several take out menus in front of him.

"Pizza, Chinese, chicken." he said.

"Oh."

Skinner almost laughed at Mulder's crestfallen expression, and his confidence increased. He handed the menus to Mulder, then got up and strode purposefully over to a handsome walnut armoire next to the television stand. He pulled open the doors to reveal an impressive collection of VHS tapes and DVDs.

Mulder looked up from the Italian menu he was scanning and gave a little yelp of surprise and pleasure when he saw all the choices.

"Dinner." Skinner pointed at the menus. "And a movie." He made an expansive sweeping gesture over the shelves of movies.

"I think I suddenly feel less tense," replied Mulder, and the smile on his face seemed to light up the whole room.

***

Skinner frowned down at the mostly full plate sitting in Fox Mulder's lap, and then brought his attention up to the man's face.

Mulder was completely captivated by the movie on TV, and seemed to have forgotten the food on his plate. He was silently mouthing the dialogue as it ran on the screen, and seemed nearly spellbound.

Skinner cleared his throat. Mulder didn't notice.

"Mulder," he tried. No response.

"Mulder." Louder.

Mulder turned, startled, then embarrassed.

"Sorry, I get absorbed. I can't believe you own this movie.Walter."

Skinner felt absurdly pleased at hearing Mulder use his given name.

"I think it was a gift," he replied. "What I can't believe is that you've seen this-how many times now?"

"Forty. This'll make forty one." He looked a little embarrassed again. "Sometime I'll explain my analytical theory on this movie and crime-solving."

Skinner could only shudder, imagining what that theory would be, while a small part of him looked forward to it.

"You're not eating," he said, changing the subject. He looked down at his nearly empty plate by comparison. "Don't you like it?"

"Oh, no. It's good. Really." Mulder offered a cheesy grin, then popped a meatball into his mouth to show Skinner just how good it was.

"But.?" Skinner didn't miss the effort it took for Mulder to swallow the food.

"I love this movie."

Skinner stood up. "I'll make coffee," he said. Mulder's eyes went back to the movie, and Skinner rolled his eyes and left the room.

He was back minutes later with two steaming mugs in his hands. The credits were rolling on the screen, and Mulder had abandoned his dinner in favor of a pillow, which he was holding in his lap and kneading compulsively. He looked almost too grateful when Skinner handed him one of the cups, and Skinner suspected that Mulder was having a hard time trying to figure out what to do with his hands. Well, he thought he knew what Mulder could do with them, but he didn't want to push. And yet, somehow he knew that Mulder wanted it too. As he sat down again beside the younger man, he wondered about the impasse they seemed to be at, and how they were going to get around it. Having Mulder in his home, sitting next to him, tie loosened and shirtsleeves rolled up, simply sitting and enjoying a movie, all these things had made him more determined than ever. He silently took back all the regrets he'd had about the flowers, and suddenly wished he could hand over another bouquet to Mulder, this time with a card and more intent.

"Was there anything else you wanted to see?" he asked, picking up the remote for the DVD and ejecting the disc.

"Yes." A pause. "And then we could watch another movie."

The delivery was completely deadpan, and it took Skinner a moment to realize Mulder had made a sexual innuendo of sorts. It made him laugh, and Mulder's eyes got wide.

"What?" He didn't like the way Mulder was looking at him, like maybe he'd suddenly turned into one of those Riticulans he was always going on about.

"You-you laughed," Mulder replied. "I don't believe that's a sound I can easily equate with Walter Skinner." The look on his face, wary but pleased, made Skinner laugh again.

Mulder tried hard to reconcile his history with his supervisor with the vision of this man before him, and couldn't do it. Assistant Director Skinner, he of the surly growl, threatened suspensions and deadly chokeholds couldn't possibly be the same man sitting here beside him, looking relaxed, smiling and laughing. And if his demeanor and the great cup of coffee he'd just given to Mulder wasn't an indication that he was in fact an alien impostor, then the fact that he owned nearly as many science fiction films as Mulder did was proof indeed. Of course, there was always the distinct possibility that this wasn't happening at all. That he was just dreaming it all, much the way Scully insisted he had dreamed the whole Queen Anne business. Maybe he was still floating his way through the Atlantic with a belly full of water and a head full of hallucinations. And if that were the case, and one more look at the grinning man sitting back on the couch sipping coffee and loosening his tie seemed to confirm it, then he knew that he didn't have to justify anything. This was not his former boss, this was some dream he was having, and he'd had enough Skinner dreams in the last while to know exactly where this one was headed. All he had to do was.

Mulder reached over and placed his hand on Skinner's thigh.

Skinner's eyes darkened, the laugh died on his lips. He stared at Mulder, then down at Mulder's hand, and fought the overwhelming urge to jump up and shout "it's about bloody time!" Instead he gave the younger man a sobering gaze, put his own hand over Mulder's, and said,

"Is this really what you want to do?"

Mulder simply nodded and squeezed Skinner's leg, relishing the feel of hard muscle under wool.

"Then there's something you have to understand." Skinner sounded suspiciously like he was in the office, and Mulder frowned at the tone of voice, already feeling like he'd done something wrong. But when he went to pull his hand away, Skinner held it tight.

"Mulder.Fox.I like you. I respect you, as an agent, and as a person. Hell, I could even fall in love with you."

Mulder felt himself blush at the unexpected praise.

"And you need to know that, because, if anything is to happen tonight-and I won't kid you, I'm hoping it will-but if we proceed from here, well, suffice to say, I'm not a trick, and I won't be just a fuck for anyone. Not even you." Skinner added weight to his words using a withering stare, but Mulder thought he could read something vulnerable beneath the gruff speech.

Mulder opened his mouth, not sure what was going to come out, but hoping like hell it would be appropriate.

"Well, you didn't ask me for my credit card number, so I don't think you're a trick, and, frankly, sir, I can't imagine you being 'just a fuck' for anyone."

Skinner smiled. "We're back to 'sir', now, are we?"

"Sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Tell me what happens next."

"I think-I think you kiss me."

"I think so, too." Skinner turned his body towards Mulder, still holding the younger man's hand pressed firmly to his leg. He brought his other hand up to cup the back of Mulder's skull, and he felt a shudder work through Mulder's body when his fingers slid through the hair on the back of his head. He moved closer, keeping his eyes open as he did so, wanting to see the expression on the other man's face, read the emotional weather there as he tipped Mulder's head back and lightly covered his mouth with his own.

The kiss was warm, soft and careful at first. An almost gentle battle ensued over dominance, with neither man able to take it, nor able to give it away. Mulder startled when Skinner's tongue licked at his lips, wordlessly demanding entrance. When Skinner felt the younger man's muscles tense up, he held back. He didn't make any further demand, simply pressed light kisses to Mulder's lips, cheeks and chin while he waited to see what Mulder wanted to do.

Mulder had felt his body respond immediately, both to Skinner's mouth on his as well as to the older man's initiative. But when Skinner had tried to deepen the kiss, he hesitated, suddenly unsure. It had been a long time since he'd been intimate with anyone (That 1939 Scully kiss didn't count), even longer since that anyone had been a man.

He wanted this, wanted more, wanted Skinner badly, so badly, but his foolish pride didn't want the other man to think he was inexperienced, that he didn't know what he was doing. He scoured his memory frantically, trying to find an experience that he could liken this to, something that he could draw from, and came up infuriatingly blank. He suddenly realized that Skinner had backed off a little, and part of him was dimly grateful, while the other, wiser part of him simply opened his mouth with a small sound of need.

He tightened his grip on Skinner's leg when he felt the other man's tongue flicker over his own.

Skinner leaned into the kiss, one hand still wrapped in the spun silk of Mulder's short hair. He could feel Mulder's fingers under his other hand compulsively kneading his thigh, and he instinctively tried to move the younger man's hand closer to his groin as he felt his arousal growing.

Mulder pulled away with an audible gasp when he felt the heat between Skinner's legs.

Skinner gave Mulder a startled but concerned glance when the younger man scooted back on the couch, putting distance between them. Mulder brushed a hand over his mouth and regarded Skinner warily.

"What is it, Mulder?" Skinner struggled to keep his focus on Mulder's eyes, noticing for maybe the first time the way their colour changed. >From hazel to green and back again as some internal war took place. He locked eyes with the younger man and struggled to contain his arousal.

"I-"

Before he could complete the thought, Skinner asked:

"Did I do something wrong?"

"No! God, no. It's not you, Walter, it's me." Mulder's eyes wavered almost desperately between Skinner's crotch and his eyes, then between the man and the television, which was currently spouting static.

Skinner decided he wasn't going to leave it at that, even if Mulder's words had mollified him a bit.

"What do you mean?" he demanded, a crooked grin blooming on his face. "I thought you were doing just fine."

Mulder flushed dully and dropped his gaze.

"I-that is, I---if you must know, it's been a long time since sex was a game for two or more players in my house," he whispered.

"I hear you, Mulder." Skinner placed two fingers under Mulder's chin, lifting his face up and capturing those eyes with his own. "But I won't tell you that I brought you here just for dinner and a movie. I'd be lying to both of us." His dark eyes held all of Mulder's attention. "In case you weren't paying attention, my dance card hasn't exactly been full for a while, either." He got a half-smile for that, one side of Mulder's mouth quirking up in a way that made Skinner want to kiss the down-turned side. "I want to remedy that," he continued. "And I want to do it with you."

"I know. I want that, too," Mulder replied, still whispering. "I just very much want this to be right. Do you know what I mean?"

Skinner nodded, and had an idea.

"Listen, why don't you try showing me what you think would be 'right'," he said, sitting back on the couch and resting his hands lightly on his thighs, legs just slightly apart. "Show me," he said again. "Take your time. My agenda is free for the rest of the night." A smile, and he turned his hands palm side up.

Mulder stared at him for a long moment, understood what Skinner was offering and why, and felt something loosen up in his heart, while at the same time his muscles tightened with anticipation. He moved back along the couch, closer to Skinner, who remained motionless, with just a soft smile playing around his lips.

Mulder reached past the older man and shut off the lamp next to the couch. The room was not plunged into total darkness, but was dimmer now, just lit by the television screen and lights that were still on in the hall and the kitchen. A shaky sigh issued from Mulder's mouth, and he sat back again, letting his eyes adjust and watching Skinner for his reaction. The man remained mute and motionless.

Moving slowly, Mulder brought his hands up to Skinner's face, and the older man closed his eyes as his glasses were carefully removed and placed on the coffee table. He kept them closed as he felt the warm skin of Mulder's palm cup the side of his face, and he leaned into the touch as Mulder stroked his cheek.

Mulder's other hand was slowly finishing the job that Skinner had started on his tie, and after a moment it lay unknotted across Skinner's chest. He touched the buttons on the white cotton shirt lightly, almost reverently and felt Skinner take a deep breath. Still moving slowly and without words, Mulder slid his right hand down Skinner's throat, paused at his Adam's apple as he felt him swallow, then let his hands meet one another on the shirt buttons. He looked down at his hands, saw that they were shaking a little, and willed them to stop. Then he glanced up at Skinner, saw that he was still smiling, eyes still closed, and that helped. He tackled the buttons slowly, pausing every time his fingers wanted to fumble, finding himself blushing as he did so and glad for the darkness.

He revealed Skinner's chest slowly and almost reverently, and when the shirt lay open to the waistband of his trousers, Mulder closed his own eyes and pressed his palms, then the side of his face to that wide expanse of flesh, relishing the feel of crisp hairs against his cheek, strong muscle under his palms. He felt his pants growing tight, then tighter still as he moved close enough to Skinner that their legs brushed against one another.

He startled at the feel of Skinner's hands on his back but didn't move, and relaxed almost immediately as those big hands slid softly up and down his body. He mimicked their movements on Skinner's chest, and was delighted to feel the man's nipples harden as his fingers brushed over them. He did it again and felt something rumble deep in Skinner's chest.

Feeling more comfortable as Skinner allowed him to set the pace, he enjoyed several minutes of this, letting Skinner massage the tension out of his back and shoulders, and mapping the country of Skinner's upper body with his own hands.

When he felt Skinner sigh again and shift under his head, he looked up and saw that the man's eyes were open and staring frankly at him.

"Wanna try that kissing thing again?" He could hear the rough need underlying the humour in Skinner's voice, felt guilty for teasing only long enough to recognize his own growing desire, and then gave the man a sharp hug. When he felt Skinner's arms tighten around him, he knew this was going to be all right; it was going to work no matter how he felt he had to play it. Skinner wasn't going to force anything on him that he didn't want, and that, coupled with the knowledge that the man would also go along with anything that he did want, strengthened his arousal, and he pressed himself on Skinner more forcefully, dragging himself up so they were face to face. Skinner's hands never left his body, but one of them was back in his hair again, making him shiver.

When he pressed his lips to Skinner's the older man obligingly opened his mouth just enough for Mulder to lick and nibble at his lower lip, then slip his tongue just inside, feeling another jolt of need rush through his body as Skinner's tongue wrapped around his briefly, then retreated. Mulder felt obligated to chase after it, and soon both men were gently trying their best to devour one another.

Skinner felt the hard evidence of Mulder's arousal pressing up against his thigh and he tried to turn his body to force more contact between them, but Mulder was holding him firmly with two strong hands on either side of his face, and distracting him with deep kisses. Finally with a tremendous groan and a wet smack he pulled away from the younger man, was delighted to see him breathing hard, eyes shiny and lips swollen, and he grinned.

"Just like riding a bike, Mulder. You never forget how," he growled, but in that good way.

Mulder smiled, swooped in for another kiss, then moved to nibble at an earlobe, and he whispered in Skinner's ear. "Hey, Walter, you got a bed in this place?"

END

* * *

Title: Songs of the South 8: Glory of Love  
Author: Goddess Michele  
Fandom: X-Files  
Pairing: M/Sk  
Category: slash  
Rating: NC17  
Status: done  
Spoilers: Triangle  
Archive: Anywhere, just leave my name on it.  
Feedback: Yes, PLEASE!   
Beta: none, but all suggestions are welcome.  
Disclaimer: C.C., Fox and 1013 own them, I'm just borrowing them for fun, not profit, and I promise to return them only slightly bruised, but in that good 'thank you sir and may I have another?' way.  
Summary: Like Fox and Walter's Mood Music, this, and the stories that follow, will be stand-alones that may or may not go together, depending on how the mood strikes me. Since it took 16 pages just to get my boys to kiss, you knew all the good bits had to go into the next chapter. First timers-sheesh! Special thanks to Chad for the music and so much more.

* * *

After a minute or two to take care of locks and lights, Skinner took Mulder wordlessly by the hand and led him up the stairs to the bedroom. He gave the younger man a quick kiss, and then moved past him to turn on a small light on the nightstand nearest the door. Shadows jumped and flickered as he walked back to Mulder and took his hand again, guiding him to the bed.

Both men were breathing rapidly from their earlier activities on the couch downstairs, and Mulder was gazing at Skinner without any of his earlier trepidation as the older man caught him up in a fierce embrace next to the bed.

Skinner pressed his lips to Mulder's temple, trickled kisses down the side of his face, and groaned when Mulder shivered as he bit at his earlobe, then licked same.

"Thank you, Mulder," he whispered.

Mulder pulled his head away to give the man a confused frown. Skinner kissed it away, and then was back on his ear, nibbling at it to feel him shiver again. Holding him firmly, he spoke again.

"This means everything to me."

He pressed his body to Mulder's and their hips touched, their cocks, still clothed in pants and undergarments, met for the first time. Suddenly the room was that much warmer. Mulder pulled away again, smiling this time and licking his lips as he threw Skinner's words back at him.

"Show me."

Moments later they were kissing again, as they pulled at one another's clothes, each man giving as good as he was getting. Skinner was at a momentary disadvantage, his shirt having been skillfully opened by Mulder earlier, but it didn't take him long to catch up, and as soon as they were both shirtless, Mulder felt himself being pushed back on the bed. He remained sitting up only by wrapping his arms around Skinner's neck as the older man knelt before him. Mulder was distracted by Skinner's tongue wrapping itself around his own, and he barely noticed when his belt was unclasped and the zipper on his pants opened.

He gasped as Skinner pulled his cock roughly out of his pants and stroked him quickly and expertly. He squirmed under the delicious assault and tried to pull the older man away, afraid he was going to cum too soon.

"Ohh." He fell back on the bed, bringing Skinner with him, had a moment of doubt when he felt the press of Skinner's weight on him, and then, as he felt that strong hand slip down his erection to gently cradle his balls, he groaned and reached for the front of Skinner's pants.

Linen and wool were still hopelessly tangled around ankles as they moved further up onto the bed, and Skinner reclaimed Mulder's mouth, his tongue moving slickly over the younger man's teeth and the roof of his mouth, trying to taste every inch of that warm wet space, while Mulder's hands cupped his ass and pulled their groins into close contact. Skinner slipped his hand further back, stroking the cleft of Mulder's buttocks, and their cocks slipped and slid and clashed with one another as they struggled to find a comfortable position and lose their pants in the process.

Mulder felt his hips buck almost involuntarily, thought he heard the jangle of belts and pocket change through the roaring in his ears as their pants dropped to the floor, and he tightened his grip on the other man and spread his legs just enough for Skinner to settle comfortably between them.

Both of Skinner's hands came up to grip the sides of his head, holding him firmly as he plundered his mouth relentlessly. Again Mulder felt himself coming perilously close to orgasm from the simple stimulation of someone else's hands on his body, and he struggled to breathe, turning his head away from Skinner's questing mouth with a tremendous effort.

"Mulder.?" He could feel Skinner's hot breath in his ear, and was pleased knowing he was the cause of the other man's breathlessness. "Are we good?"

"Yeah, I think so," his own words came out rough and gasping. "I want-I need to touch you."

He felt Skinner's breath catch in his throat, and then the man was moving off him with a sigh and a groan, lying next to him on his side and he let himself be turned to face him. A soft kiss, not unlike their first one, and then both men were looking down as Mulder reached out and tentatively put his hand on Skinner's cock.

A shudder wracked Skinner's body, and his hips thrust forward a little, and then he was wrapping his big hand around Mulder, mirroring the younger man's movements, both of them watching the actions of the other and gaining increased stimulation from it.

A soft stroke down Skinner's impressive erection, and Mulder shivered at the silken feel of the hot flesh in his hand. A little moan escaped him as Skinner did the same thing. It didn't take long for them to establish a rhythm that suited them both, and they looked up at one another at the same time.

Skinner zeroed in on Mulder's mouth again, slipping his free arm around the other man's neck to hold his head firmly, although his kisses were less fevered as he was growing more and more distracted by Mulder's increasingly bold strokes up and down the length of his cock. He pushed his cock through Mulder's fist and his tongue into Mulder's mouth, and then let Mulder do the same.

He groaned around Mulder's tongue as the hand between his legs stilled, and then was removed.

"Wha--? Ohh."

"Walter, I need to know." Mulder's breath hitched as Skinner stroked more firmly, trying to set an example for the younger man.

"Walter, please." He didn't know if he was pleading for him to stop or begging for more, but something in his voice must have alerted the other man. He didn't release Mulder's erection, but his hand stopped moving and he gave him a level look.

"I need-I-is this enough?"

"What do you mean, Mulder?"

"I mean I wasn't kidding when I said it had been a long time. Too long, maybe. But." His voice trailed off and Skinner frowned at him.

"Is there something else you'd rather be doing, Mulder?" A quick vision of himself thrusting into Mulder came and went so fast that Skinner startled violently and his hand involuntarily tightened on Mulder's cock, making the other man whimper and thrust his hips forward.

"Oh-oh-I-what I want is." he paused a moment to kiss the concerned crease in Skinner's forehead, then hugged him tightly. "I need to know if there's going to be a next time." He seemed to be forcing the words out only with tremendous effort, although his erection never flagged, and he was touching Skinner's cock again. "Because I think maybe you want something that I'm just not ready for."

Skinner slowly resumed his stroking, running his thumb over the large head of Mulder's cock, feeling it grow slippery in his hand as Mulder's need intensified. He let Mulder's words roam around in his increasingly foggy mind for a moment, got that picture in his head again, and understood completely.

"Tab A Slot B," he muttered stupidly. He let go of Mulder's cock and brought his hand up to rest on Mulder's chest, feeling the rapid heartbeat beneath his breast. He found Mulder's hot spot behind his ear with his mouth, nibbled there until Mulder groaned, and then whispered. "I wouldn't ask you to go all the way on the first date."

Mulder was shocked into laughing, and surprisingly enough it did nothing to decrease his arousal. If anything, the whispered words gave him some sense of control, some measure of safety that he hadn't even realized was missing, and it increased his ardor.

"And Mulder." Skinner was speaking again, now into the joint between his neck and his shoulder. He bit and Mulder gave a yelp and his cock twitched helplessly. Skinner's hand made it's way slowly back down his body, fingers splayed to twirl through sparse body hair, tickle at his navel, tease the crease where his leg and body met, and then grip his cock with renewed vigor combined with a new sense of tenderness.

"Fox." he continued speaking, his words muffled, his breath steaming hot on Mulder's skin. "I'm telling you this: there's going to be more 'next times' than you can imagine."

"I don't know, Walter, I can imagine quite a bit." The cultural reference was lost on Skinner, but when Mulder found their previous strong stroking rhythm again and turned his face to recapture his mouth, it didn't matter.

It became a contest of sorts, a race, as they learned each other's bodies, and strained for completion. Mulder's cry of victory was drowned out by Skinner's roar of release as he came with abandon, wetting Mulder's fist and belly, and his own hands clamped down on Mulder. The sudden added pressure sent Mulder over the edge, and he exploded noisily himself a moment later, invoking the names of deities he didn't even believe in.

They clung to one another desperately for several minutes, sweat and cum mingling between them as they shared oxygen-giving kisses designed to comfort and rejuvenate, rather than arouse.

Mulder pulled his mouth off of Skinner's but didn't relinquish his hold on the other man, although he suspected a shower would be in order soon.

"Walter," he murmured.

Skinner grinned sleepily at him "Mulder."

He thought about the way his given name had sounded coming from Skinner, thought he liked it, thought it was a conversation they could have another time. There was something more pressing, more important, that he had to say now.

"Walter," he said again. "Thank you for the flowers."

THE END...?

  
Archived: December 31, 2001 


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